Prelude in C
by AllTheOtherNamesAreUsed
Summary: Carlisle Cullen had experienced a long existence of isolation & facade, but the final wish of a dying woman sets him on a path to end his solitude forever. Canon. Carlisle x Esme, Edward. Winner of 2012 "Sunflower Award" & 2011 Vampie "Bloody Brilliant".
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Special thanks to HeartOfDarkess for the generous gift of her time, thoughts, and support, and to Totteacher, whose story My Saving Grace got me thinking, and is alluded to in some of the dialog. Finally, to my beta Coleen561, who went back and betaed the chapters I'd published before she joined me. You're a gem._

_I don't own Twilight or its characters._

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Chicago, 1918.

EPOV

The wind blew my mother's dress around her legs, and she quickly reached up to secure her hat before the gust tugged the wide brim, giving it wings. Her eyes danced as I leapt from rock to rock on the breakwater, and then sprinted up the beach to join her. I was showing off, but she was in a tolerant mood. More than tolerant. It had been ages since we'd been to the shore, and we were both reveling in the fresh air, sparkling diamonds on the water, and the calls of gulls and terns. My father was far back along the beach, walking in a steady rhythm; whether he was composing a business memo or a sonata, I wasn't sure—his shoulders always hunched thoughtfully in either case. I flashed a grin at my mother and raced down to the water again. Her shoes didn't allow for such antics, and she was too proper a lady to partake anyway, but she laughed and raised her face to the sun, soaking in the warmth. She strolled toward the water slowly, her face beaming.

"Edward…" she called laughing.

"Shhhh…Edward, it's okay." I opened my eyes, trying to make sense of my surroundings. There was a moist cloth on my brow and an ashen, sallow woman standing over me talking, but I couldn't understand the words. I looked at the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, blue sky gone. A moan broke through the hushed room. The smell of death flooded my nostrils, and I knew this place. I looked at the woman, and knew the gold flecks in her green eyes. Anguish burned through me. I looked away—it was too painful—and saw the empty bed on my other side. Where was my father? A fevered vision of the bed being wheeled away entered my mind. He was dead. We would all die here. I looked back to my mother's eyes. Not her face—I couldn't bear to see her face like that—but her eyes, which somehow were still full of love and concern, even pride. I groaned as the pain overwhelmed me again, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling while trickles of sweat trailed along my temple. The heat of the fever tortured every nerve, yet I shivered.

A new voice caught my attention. A musical voice. I looked for my mother, but she was gone—no, lower, in her own bed again. I looked to the foot of her bed and saw an angel in white. An angel was talking to my mother, smiling at her, and holding her chart. _That can't be right_. I blinked and looked again. No. A doctor. His fair hair illuminated from behind by one of the bare light bulbs looked like a halo, and his lab coat was still clean…must be the start of a new shift. He was smiling kindly, asking my mother questions. The actual words eluded me, but their tenor was compassionate. I heard my name, and he looked at me. _Handsome boy…_s_uch a waste._ I could see the sentiment on his face, though I couldn't be sure I'd heard him say it.

The angel-doctor moved between our beds to examine my mother more closely. She gasped as he placed his hands behind her shoulders to help her drink. He muttered something about having just come in from outside. She pleaded with him to take care of me, and not worry about her. He turned to me and shone a light in my eyes.

"Edward, can you hear me?" _Still in there, son? _I tried to speak but could only focus on my labored breath. The light was gone.

Time seemed to ebb and flow, like the fever that wracked my body. Waves of heat crested and waned, only to build again. Colors danced across my eyes, whether they were opened or closed. The colors formed dots, and the dots formed notes, and the notes formed Bach's Prelude in C, it's aching beauty playing through my mind.

I heard the faint rhythmic squeak of wheels as they rolled another bed out of the ward and into the next room: the room of the dead. Calling this ward part of the hospital implied too much optimism. It was an extension of the morgue. The waiting room. None of us would leave it through the other set of doors. Those doors were just for the doctors.

The room grew brighter, and another doctor came to speak with us. This one was red-faced and clutched a mask over his mouth. His face said what he shouldn't voice: _Why did they send me here? I'm too important to be exposed. I don't belong here. _His eyes darted as he added notes to our charts. He did not smile kindly; he was no angel.

More beds were brought in. I looked to my side and thought for a moment that my father was back, or that I'd only imagined him being gone. But it was another man. Another family broken. Another sufferer. My breathing grew faster as my skin began to burn again, the pain in my abdomen intense. I focused on the ragged breathing of my mother, and checked that she was still at my other side. The moaning in the room increased as the new patients realized that they had passed through the proverbial gates, and were waiting for the boatman to take them to Hades. Their agony permeated me, as though I were a sponge. I could imagine their thoughts; we all had the same thoughts here in the waiting room. Thoughts of anger and regret, suffering, betrayal, and finally acquiescence. Slowly, the moaning calmed as the new nearly-dead accepted their fate. The rhythm was the same every day. I'd lost track of how long I'd witnessed it. I had no idea if I'd even been semi-conscious much of the time.

The room slowly darkened again, and the bulbs scattered across the ceiling were lit like beacons. I closed my eyes and I could still see them. Like fireflies. I saw my mother's face, surrounded by fireflies in the backyard. A dinner party. She looked lovely, radiant, joyful…Chopin's Nocturne wafted through the French doors of the parlor…Father was at the piano. Mother danced in the grass as she cleared the glasses from the tables. I tried to hum along, but my throat was so dry, my body so heavy. I concentrated on the melody, and my mother dancing.

The bed shook and my eyes fluttered open for a moment; the angel-doctor was holding my mother.

"Mrs. Masen! What are you trying to do? You aren't strong enough…let me help you lie down."

"_What_ _are you_?" She asked as she grasped his arms. My eyes fell closed.

"I'm your doctor, and I'm here to help you." He lifted her into her bed, but his voice was discomposed. The man next to me moaned, drowning out their hushed conversation. Then I heard her clearly.

"You must save my Edward!" she coughed, and then took several labored breaths. Her voice sounded frenzied, as though she were using every last bit of her energy. "Only you can help him."

I heard the angel-doctor freeze. I felt the questions in his pause: _What is she asking? What does she know?_

"You can save him; only you can," she said, and then lay back in her bed, gasping. He whispered something to her, and then called loudly.

"Nurse!"

There were sounds of people all around my mother's bed. I tried to sit up, but my head spun, and I fell back, my eyes closed and my breath shallow. What was my mother asking him? I was beyond being saved. My dreams, military aspirations, desire for glory…I'd let go of those days ago. I only clung to memories now. Any petty worries over perceived injustices of my childhood had vanished as I desperately focused on the best memories. The activity at the next bed continued, but made no sense to me. I tried to listen to what were likely my mother's last moments. The sounds were confused…too many voices… anguish and pain wracked my mind and body. I tried to remember the Chopin melody, but couldn't. I sunk into oblivion.

CPOV

I stared at the empty space where Mrs. Masen's bed had been, as I listened to it pass through the morgue doors. I'd known there was almost no chance of her surviving, but I was still sad to have her gone. Sad and unnerved. She'd seen me. The _real_ me—or at least she glimpsed some portion of the truth beyond my human façade. My veil had not slipped in such a very long time. To be actually seen, and received not as a frightening beast, but as something good, something that could save her son. To have my acts show through…what I do rather than what I am…this was nothing I'd met with in my existence. It was always my prayer. That somehow a form of salvation was possible for me, despite the fact that I was inhuman—that what I did with the lot fate offered me was more important than the fate itself. But to be faced with the reality of that acceptance was both humbling and empowering.

That's not to say Elizabeth Masen fully understood what she was asking. She did not understand that I was a vampire—I could not consider myself a monster—but she did understand I was something different from her. She knew I was inhuman… _you're_ _more than that_ she'd said. She'd made it clear that if Edward had to be like me to be saved, that was her wish. She would rather that he were like me, than that he succumbed to this plague. She must have seen me as _good_, if she wanted that for him.

I turned and looked at the boy, crouching so I was eye-level to his face. He was out cold, and I didn't need medical instruments to assess his vital signs. I could see, smell and hear all I needed; he would be dead within an hour…two at the most. If I was really going to do this, I couldn't delay. I weighed the implications of the choice before me. On the one hand, there was a distinct possibility that I'd be robbing him of his soul. I didn't truly believe this, or at least I fought against it, justifying my good actions as proof of my soul…but I knew this was dubious logic. _And_ there was the possibility that I would simply drain him; that I would be unable to stop once I'd had my first taste of human blood, despite the long centuries of control. If I did drain him, it might change me in such a way that my control was compromised forever. Even tasting him might alter me, making it more difficult to interact with humans in the future…possibly even forcing me to lose my practice.

But on the other hand…to have a companion that really knew and accepted me would be a gift beyond any I could imagine. I'd spent the vast majority of my existence trying to blend with humans. I was generally on good terms with my colleagues at the hospitals, but the relationships were shallow and fleeting; I could never stay in one place more than seven or eight years without it being noticeable that I wasn't aging. And even casual friendships were dangerous. It was so easy to slip up in conversation, admit to seeing something or someone that I should not have been alive to see. The closest I'd come to a lasting friendship was with Aro in Italy. I'd stayed there several decades, the longest I'd ever stayed in one place. But eventually his contempt for human life drove me away. Despite enjoying the companionship, and the ability to discuss all manner of artistic or cultural pursuits, I could not abide his reckless disdain for humans. I called him a friend, but I knew the truth: he was merely the closest thing I had to one. And that was a very sad fact.

This was the best opportunity that I'd ever had, or likely would have. The boy was close to death, but his heart was still beating strong. He had no remaining direct relatives; the distant ones lived several states away. No one would be looking for him too closely, or too soon. The final question was this: would the boy forgive me? If I succeeded in changing him, it did not necessarily follow that he would be the companion I yearned for. He may resent this new life…the possible stripping of his soul…being forced to outlive all those he cared about. But he was his mother's son; I'd seen that as they interacted the last several nights. And she'd accepted me. Perhaps he would too. It was likely a selfish decision, and I hoped I would forgive myself for it someday, but I wrapped myself in Elizabeth Masen's final request on this earth, and made my choice. Now I had only to carry it out as carefully as possible. And quickly. I was racing his heart now. And the sun; I had less than an hour before dawn.

"Dr. Cullen? Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Michaela," I said as the nurse approached. I'd been too still again. I was getting sloppy. I stood and took one last look at Edward's face before covering it with a sheet.

"That one too?" she asked sympathetically.

I looked at the ground and shook my head sadly, beginning my act. "I'll take care of this one, Michaela. I need to complete the paperwork for the morgue on the ones we lost tonight, and go see Dr. Anderson before my shift is over. Could you please take Mr. and Mrs. Jensen their medications for me?"

"Of course, doctor," she called after me as I wheeled Edward into the morgue, struggling in my excitement to keep my walk at a human speed.

Once the doors closed, I moved faster; no one in here could observe. I was good at covering my tracks, but falsifying medical records wasn't something I'd had to do before. Still, I knew the gaps in the system, especially a system struggling to keep up with the death toll that we were currently dealing with. The bodies of the flu victims were being cremated before being released to the families, for public health reasons. There were two groups: those that we had names for, and those that we didn't. I found an unnamed corpse that matched Edward's general description, removed its toe label and placed it on Edward. Then I quickly filled out another label and put it on the new boy's toe. I grabbed his corpse, and Elizabeth's, and moved them to the front of the line, next to Mr. Masen. I hoped the evidence would be burned tomorrow, without anyone getting much of a look at the bodies. That covered Edward's tracks. As I turned to cover my own, I noticed Elizabeth Mason's hand had become uncovered. She still wore her wedding ring. If Edward survived, he should have it. I removed it and placed it in my pocket, thanking Elizabeth one more time as I squeezed her hand.

I placed Edward, still covered, on a table in the corner amidst the other nameless victims, and hoped he would not attract notice—and that he would keep breathing—during the few minutes I needed to cover my own tracks. I made the final notes to Edward's chart, and placed it and the ones I'd finished earlier in the dead file. Then I raced into the safe room on my way to Dr. Anderson's office, and quickly identified Mr. Masen's box. There was a ring, a silver cigarette box, and some cash. I left the cash, and pocketed the other items, replacing the ring with one from another container so it Mr. Masen's box wouldn't look too empty. These were Edward's things. I'd work on the rest of his legacy later, but at least I could offer him these. I felt in my breast pocket for the telegram that I always carried with me, the date smudged, and ran to Dr. Anderson's office.

"Come in, Carlisle," he said as I knocked on the open door.

"Peter, I've got a problem. I received this telegram earlier. My sister and her husband have succumbed to the flu in Pittsburgh. I need to go look after my nephew, and deal with their estate. I'm sorry to leave you on such short notice…"

"Carlisle, I'm so sorry! Of course you need to go. Let Catherine and I know if we can do anything for you while you're gone. You've been so accommodating about working the night shifts, I'm sure the other doctors will be happy to cover you for as long as you need." I hadn't thought of that. It might be useful to be able to come back. Then again, if I succeeded, Edward would be an unruly newborn for a year, and would be my new full-time job.

"I don't know when I'll be able to come back. And I'd hate to see you short-handed when things are so crazy, Peter. I would have come up earlier, but we lost the Masens, the Blacks and little Lucia Mathers tonight, and I've been trying to keep up with the paperwork. I'm afraid you shouldn't hold my job for me, though I do truly appreciate the offer."

Peter's face turned grim. "Well, I'm sorry to lose you, Carlisle. If you're ever back this way let me know. You're a fine doctor and I'd always make a place for you." He held out his hand to shake mine, but I pulled my hand back.

"We'd better not. I just came from the morgue and haven't washed up. Thank you for everything you've done for me, Peter. I appreciate it so much," I said smiling. That was true. I'd enjoyed this job. "I'm going to try to make the 8 a.m. train. If it looks like I'll be able to return soon, I'll send you a telegram in a few days. If you don't hear from me…"

"I'll put the word out today that we're looking for a new doctor. You're right; we can't be short- staffed right now. Carlisle, I wish you all the best."

I took my leave, and as soon as I was clear of his sight, I raced at inhuman speed to get back to the morgue. Edward was right where I'd left him, his breathing shallower, but his heart still strong. Now to get him out without being seen. All the exits either took me through crowded parts of the hospital or onto sidewalks aglow with streetlights. And dawn was nearing. I wracked my brain for several seconds, running through the options over and over. Then the solution hit me. I took Edward and carried him to the side stairwell. It was empty. I quickly climbed the stairs all the way to the attic; this was used for storing archived records, and was completely deserted. I made my way to the front of the building, where I could access the clock tower, and climbed those two sets of stairs. Now high above the street, above even the surrounding rooftops, looked out through the eastern arch to see the first signs of dawn.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing, Edward." Feeling every bit the vampire stealing away with his victim, I leapt from the clock tower to the next building, and continued north, bounding over rooftops as I left the city.

EPOV

I was flying. Cool wind brushed my face and my stomach lurched as I felt myself rise and fall, rise and fall. Was I dead? Was I ascending to heaven? But I kept falling too…perhaps the fates were unsure where I belonged next. If I were dead, wouldn't the pain be gone? I took a ragged breath and smelled a forest. Then I groaned as the pain overwhelmed me again.

"We're almost there, Edward." The musical voice. I realized I was being carried. Cold, hard arms held me close as I flew. The rhythmic rising and falling rocked me like a child. I slipped into darkness again.

The pain was changing. It was acute now, at my neck, instead of the dull constant pain in my head and abdomen. I was lying down. I must have dreamt of flying. I must be in my bed. Had they injected me with more medicine? I tried to open my eyes, but couldn't. I felt the fever, and the chills, and the ache in my muscles, and the pain in my gut, but this new sharp pain was beginning to overshadow them all. It was silent except for my quick shallow breaths. The pain turned hot, and spread. Was it acid? Was it fire? Was the hospital burning? My whole body could now feel the fire, and whatever mild pain I'd suffered from the influenza was nothing compared to agonizing blaze that engulfed me now. We must be burning alive. The building must have caught fire so quickly they couldn't evacuate. Or they focused on those with a chance of survival, and left the morgue to burn. The blaze finally brought my consciousness to the surface, and I was able to let out a scream and open my eyes. Where were the other screams? Where were the flames? Why was I burning alone in a quiet, dimly lit room?

Not alone. The face of the angel-doctor came into view above me. He was talking, stroking my hair, trying to soothe. I could only hear the scream, and feel the flames: the invisible flames that licked my flesh, and seared through my veins like lava. At least with pain this acute, it must be over soon. I'd clung to life in the hospital, straining against the looming darkness. I'd known it was coming, was resigned, in some ways. But I'd still fought for life, fought to hear my mother's labored breaths, fought to understand the patterns of the day; who was coming, who was going, where I fit in my surroundings. Now I cared for nothing but the blaze raging through my body. I welcomed death. It could not come soon enough. The fires of hell could have nothing on the wretched inferno that burned through me now, and perhaps…perhaps…I would end up somewhere else. Somewhere cool, where sickness would never reach me, and I could find joy again. Or maybe there would be nothing. Oblivion, too, would be welcome. Nothingness would be bliss.

But the burn didn't end. I waited to go into shock. Surely my mind would protect me from this excruciating pain…but it did not. In fact, it seemed focused on the pain. I tried to hear music, or the angel-doctor, or see colors. But I only saw red, only felt the searing burn, only heard my own voice, shrieking in pain. I felt the wall of fire, and then each individual tongue of the flame, entering each artery, each capillary, each cell. Each minutia of change in the blaze claimed the attention of my mind, until I was focused on each tortured nerve at once. There was no room left in my mind for anything but the pain. And time, which had ebbed and flowed in the hospital, came to a stop.

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_AN: All the music mentioned throughout Prelude in C can be accessed via the web playlist link on my profile._

_The music is very important in some parts of the story, and I hope you'll take the time to listen as you read. A Prelude is a piece of music that often introduces another larger piece. I hope my story serves as a canon introduction or "origin" story for the beginnings of the Clan Cullen. I plan to take it through 1930 or so… just before Rose joins. And of course, any Prelude about the Cullens would have to be in the key of C…_

_Thank you for reading._


	2. Chapter 2

CPOV

I held my hand over my mouth and backed away from the table, until I could grasp something, anything, to keep me from approaching Edward again. I had barely been able to stop drinking his blood, despite my precautions. I'd fixed Elizabeth Masen's face in my mind before biting him, remembering her words, her pleading eyes. Hoping that the memory of her—her last wish, and her faith in me—would counteract the first taste of human blood. It had only just worked. I'd tried to merely bite, and not drink, but I was so startled by the flavor that I'd drawn in a mouthful, and that had almost been my undoing. I'd drained more of him than was necessary, taking several gulps as I fought to control myself, willing myself to let go. My eyes had seen only crimson, once his soft throat lay open beneath my lips, the pulsing blood so much more fragrant and delectable than anything I'd tasted or even dreamed of before. I'd shuddered in near ecstasy. I'd finally understood something of Aro's perspective. If I'd started with this ambrosia, and didn't see humans as true people, it would be hard to imagine feeding on anything else. It had finally been the vision of Aro's crimson eyes, superimposed with Elizabeth Masen's green ones, that had allowed me to pull away from Edward's open throat: the fear of what I might become, juxtaposed with all I hoped I was worthy of.

I clung to the doorframe behind me as my breathing slowed and my vision returned to a normal spectrum. I'd done it. The bloodlust was passing and I hadn't killed him. His heart still beat…I swallowed down another surge of venom at the thought. Edward was not my prey. He was a person, and I hoped, one day, perhaps a friend. I let out a haggard breath.

The wound on his neck had already sealed, the venom taking immediate effect. His smell had almost changed enough that I could approach and clean the blood from the wound, but I didn't dare quite yet. He would have a scar, like mine. I'd thought about trying to bite him somewhere less obvious, but all I really knew was my own transformation, and the safest thing to do was replicate my own wound. The scar would fade, after all…humans never noticed mine. Edward started to twitch, and I knew that the rest of my experience was about to be replicated as well. Sympathy flooded me, and I hoped again that Edward would forgive me for this selfish act. His body began to thrash, and the predator within me was completely suppressed; I'd already started toward him when his eyes opened wide and he let out an agonizing scream. The doctor in me immediately took over, and I was standing by his side, washing his wound, stroking his hair, trying to reassure him that he wasn't alone, that the pain would pass, that his new life would be free of sickness. Watching his eyes, I could tell he neither saw nor heard much of what surrounded him. I wished I'd had the foresight to take some sedative when I left the hospital. I wondered as I watched him suffer, if I could have eased his pain with ether or morphine; I wished I'd remembered it as I left the hospital, but I hadn't been thinking that far ahead. I had some tools in my black bag upstairs, but only local anesthetics and mild pain relievers—useless.

Though his eyes had searched for contact when he first began crying out, they were now unseeing; he was completely consumed with his own agony. If memory served, it would last for days. I stayed with him, despite knowing he was not aware I was there. It was right that I suffer with him, but it was time that I finally did think ahead. I was no longer racing his heart or the sun; there was time to think of the future now. What did I need to do before he awoke? What would he need to be comfortable here? I took his paltry inheritance from my pockets. The cigarette case and two rings were all that he had to remember his previous life…it was barely more than I had, but all that was duly his lay only a few miles away. How was I to secure it for him?

I wasn't worried about him needing wealth. I had plenty to share for now. It was the heirlooms I wished to secure…his ties to his family and past. Though I must consider the possibility that he will not always wish to stay with me. I sighed at the thought, but I must prepare for it. His parents, I felt sure, would have prepared for him to be able to support himself with an education, some wealth, and some instruction on how to protect that wealth. I was a poor substitute for his parents, but would do what I could. The first step was to ensure he actually inherited his parents' estate.

I grew frustrated with myself. I'd thought I was so clever, being so careful with his chart. Now I regretted it. When the cremation took place later today, a death certificate would be created, based on the time of death I'd just written in his chart an hour earlier. This would be problematic for the inheritance. I sighed, contemplating the problem. The morgue was completely overwhelmed; all that really needed to be done was to sow a seed of doubt. The family house itself would remain under quarantine for at least a week; no one would be taking stock of the estate until that point, and it would likely take longer than that. It would be feasible that Edward had been discharged to a relative once his parents passed, and that some other young man had been mistaken for him in the confusion of the epidemic. All I really had to do was strip the file of the time of death, and make a reference to a discharge, without an actual time. No death certificate could be created. Then a letter sent in a week or so to the family lawyer explaining that Edward had been released to a distant relative, where he was recovering slowly, would put the estate in limbo until he was able to present himself and claim it. His eyes would change from crimson to amber after a few months, and then it was just a matter of waiting for his control to be sufficient for a meeting. Even if he had to wait an entire year, it seemed likely that letters could drag out the proceedings enough to allow for it. I knew enough law to be able to draw this out. And if it looked like we were failing in our efforts, there were other ways to secure the most precious keepsakes for him.

The plan formulated in my mind. I hated to leave Edward, but I could do what was necessary at the hospital and be back within an hour, and his condition was not going to change before then. My home was isolated enough that I had little fear of his cries leading others to him in his unprotected state. The question became whether I show up at the hospital, claiming to have missed my train, or be completely clandestine. I looked at my reflection in the mirror; my eyes had a slight crimson tinge, but it would probably not be noticeable to humans. I looked out the window, and noticed the slight overcast of the day. It would be risky to do it now; the sun could break out at any moment. I could easily be caught. However, if I waited, it would be more likely that I'd missed my chance to change the chart discretely, without having to tamper with other records as well…the more complicated this became, the more likely I'd miss a step and have contradictory elements in the records that would not pass scrutiny. And the longer I waited, the more likely Edward would become aware of his surroundings without me here to help him.

"Edward," I said, stroking his hair again. He was whimpering, having exhausted himself somewhat with his cries. "I'll be back as soon as I'm able. I'm so sorry. This is new for me, too," I added as an excuse for my lack of foresight.

I grabbed a long coat, gloves, and a hat, so that I could minimize my skin exposure once I got to the city. I left the house directly, blurring back though the forest as quickly as possible. I tried to think of what else I might have missed. He would need a room; a place to claim as his own, where he could avoid me, if he liked. I didn't know what he would want in it, but I could at least clear my belongings out of one so he had the option. If we were going to be successful in a claim with a lawyer, we were going to need documents. I could forge them, of course, but it would prove embarrassing if the real ones then turned up in the house. So a visit was going to be necessary while it was under quarantine. For any other plans, I was going to need information that only Edward could supply. I reached the edge of the forest, and came to a stop, trying to decide how to proceed.

The streets were not terribly crowded; it was after the initial rush of businessmen getting to their offices, but well before the shops opened. However, I didn't know who might be watching from the windows. I made sure my hat was pulled down low, hunched my shoulders so I was looking down, and moved as fast as _humanly_ possible though the several blocks to the back of the hospital, where a shadowy alley held a service entrance to the hospital. After waiting several agonizing minutes for the alley to clear, and the sounds behind the door to fade as well, I slipped in and made my way to the back of the morgue. I hid in the shadows as two men rolled another gurney down the hall toward the crematorium. When silence fell on the morgue again, I sped to the waiting bodies, relieved to see the Masens still there, only three back from the front now. I removed the toe tag from the boy standing in for Edward, and rushed to the dead file, where I'd placed all the charts just hours earlier. They were gone, and panic seized me, until I saw a stack of charts on the table in the corner, apparently in alphabetical order. I grabbed Edward's and moved to a darkened closet, where I could review and alter it without fear of being caught, while still being able to hear anything happening in the morgue.

I quickly altered the chart appropriately, crumpling and pocketing the page with the death and replacing it with a notation of the death of the parents, and requesting contact for familial discharge. Then I read the portion of the chart I'd never bothered with: the section in the back with the billing contact—this was likely the estate lawyer, or someone appropriate to contact about it. I already knew his next of kin, but I read further, to any family contacts listed. When I'd gleaned everything I could, I listened carefully at the door, and then made my way back to the table, replacing Edward's chart, and then leaving the hospital for what I knew must be my last time. The Masens were no longer in the morgue; I'd been just in time.

It was frustrating to walk at a human pace on my way back to the forest; I was desperate to be back with Edward now. I really had no idea how long the process would take, or how aware he might be. I hated the idea of him being there, wanting comfort, and finding himself alone. The wind picked up, and my hat almost blew off, nearly exposing me to the sun. But I made it to the forest's edge, and removed my hat under the shelter of the trees and bolted the rest of the way home.

Edward was groaning and thrashing on the table, his fingers grasping the edges so hard that I was sure he would eventually destroy the table. I tried to soothe him again, explaining where I'd been, what I'd done, and why. I stroked his hair, his cheek. I didn't imagine that he could understand me yet, but I hoped that somehow he would register that he wasn't alone; that he was cared for.

I spent the next day alternating between being by his side and preparing the house for him. I cleared his room, and organized the living room so that my books were not strewn over the entire place. I was so used to being alone. No one had so much as entered one of my homes since I left Europe. I kept trying to imagine sharing the space, deciding what he would need to feel it was at least in part his, and pull myself back to the remaining portion of the room. I grew nervous too, that this effort was wasted—that he would hate me for doing this to him, and never consider this place a home. How would I have reacted if that old wraith from the London sewer had tried to befriend me? I shuddered at the thought.

How could I possibly explain this in a way that would ease his transition? I had believed in monsters when I'd been transformed; I'd recognized what I'd become, knew the danger to myself and to others. But Edward lived in a modern, apparently monster-free world. It was not going to be easy for him to accept. And it would be harder still to accept that I had not done it to be cruel—that I'd had his mother's blessing, her specific dying request, even. How would he ever believe it? He'd been completely delirious his last hours in the hospital. He would remember none of it. I'd have to tell him of the loss of his family, the loss of his humanity, the loss of his home—I was overwhelmed with the profound nature of that loss, and the fact that I'd only have myself to offer as compensation. What a miserable exchange. I was filled with sympathy for him, actually aching when I thought of his likely reaction. I also felt fear for myself. He would be devastated, and likely angry, and much, much stronger than me.

I stayed with him constantly now, trying to soothe him, noticing the change in his skin, his color, even his features as the transformation drew to a close. I could hear the change in his heart, too. His eyes were closed, but he still thrashed and clawed at the table, removing splinters from the edge. I explained to him that the pain would end soon, he would awaken soon, and that he was not alone. I tried to focus on my hope, even as my dread grew.

EPOV

Time began again. I noticed two things. First, my mind could focus on things other than pain. The pain had not abated in the slightest, but I could think around it. I could notice smells, and the feeling of wood beneath my fingers, and movement of air on my face. I could acknowledge these things, even while acknowledging that the pain was just as terrible as it had ever been. It was a relief to think about something else.

Second, there was a voice. I was not alone. I could not place the voice, though it was oddly familiar. But it was there, and it was constant. Really constant. It never stopped. It changed in tone. Sometimes it was clear, and I could feel cool breath on my cheek. Other times it sounded softer, more resonant perhaps. It was like the difference between a note played on a harpsichord, clean and sharp, and the same note on a cello, rich and melodious. But it was the same note; the same voice. I wondered at how the voice could change, welcoming the distraction, but it made little sense.

I wondered if I didn't _appear_ to be burning. Surely, if I were actually alight, the voice would not be so calm. Surely it would scream, and its owner take action. But the voice was ever calm, ever soothing, ever…worried. The voice worried a lot. It worried about me, and books, and lawyers, and my mother. The voice knew my mother. Perhaps it was a relative. Perhaps I _appeared_ to be in a coma. I'd read stories of soldiers coming home from war with brain injuries, and the doctors would have family members talk to them constantly to try to wake them up. Perhaps this voice was trying to wake me up. Perhaps people came out of comas when they were finally too annoyed to listen to the voice drone on anymore.

The harpsichord voice was soothing and encouraging. It told me that the pain was nearly over, that I wasn't alone, that I wouldn't be sick anymore. I remembered the hospital, though it was difficult—like looking through fog. I remembered light bulbs and fireflies, and music and squeaking wheels, but mostly pain. I wanted to believe the voice, believe that I wouldn't be sick anymore, that somehow this fire was burning the illness from me. The cello voice said not to worry, that things would be fine. But it was unsure. The cello voice was worried, frightened even. Frightened for me. Frightened _of_ me. Sometimes the two voices would overlap, talking of different things, like a discordant duet. It was confusing.

Cutting suddenly through my confusion, the pain became worse again, as though all the pain throughout my body were concentrating, moving to my center, to my heart. This meant that my extremities felt reprieve: my fingers were suddenly cool and pain free, as though they'd been doused in cold, magical water. The cool water moved up my arms and legs, quenching the fire, soothing the flesh, but my mind could barely register the relief; the pain in my center was growing unbearable. I felt my core quake, even as my limbs went limp. My breath grew quick and shallow, as if extra oxygen might douse the searing flame. My heart accelerated, straining. And then failing: each heartbeat more difficult than the last. The voice was wrong. I was dying. My heart was failing, and the pain was going to win after all. I waited for it, beyond hope, beyond fear, just waiting for the pain to end.

And then it did. My heart stopped. The pain was gone. All was quiet. Almost. I could hear breathing. My own breathing. _That can't be right._ I opened my eyes, and saw a small crystal light fixture refracting light in every direction. Each minute beam of light caught dust floating and spiraling in the air. As I breathed I saw the particles swirl and dive. It was so beautiful.

Cracks on the ceiling stretched like an intricate spider web. My eyes roamed, noticing the depth of the colors, the detail, the enhanced contrast that made everything look crisp and vibrant and clear. It was as though I'd spent my entire life within a photograph, but woke now to find that I inhabited an oil painting, exquisitely created by a master, rich with detail…all of which I could see, no matter how distant.

_Edward? _It was the cello voice.

Suddenly I was crouching, with a table between the voice and myself. How had I done that? I can't move that fast. I scanned the room for danger, looking in the direction of the voice. I saw a man standing against the wall, wary, but beautiful. I stood, tilting my head slightly as I studied him. There was no danger. I knew him. I remembered him dimly, as being good—though I didn't remember him being this…illuminated.

"It's you," I said, and then was startled by my own voice. It was musical, lustrous. My face must have registered surprise. He smiled.

"Yes."

"The angel from the hospital," I added, suddenly aware of the light from the window being thrown into dozens of rainbows against the wall from the crystal light. It was strange how my eyes could not stay on a single object, but were constantly drawn to new things. I was so easily distracted

_I'm no angel._

"No? No, of course. Doctor. I meant doctor," I said, looking at him again. "You were with my mother."

"Yes," he said, watching me carefully. Something was wrong. He looked startled. I crouched again, looking for the danger, but found none. I abruptly realized this was not the hospital, and stood again.

"I was burning."

"Yes," he said, sorrow in his eyes.

I raised my hand to my throat. "I burn still, and my heart is still…" My eyes grew wide, and I paused briefly, trying to make sense of everything. "Is this hell?" I finally asked.

"No, Edward," he said smiling gently. "Illinois."

I shook my head, bewildered. "It's too bright to be Illinois."

"It's disorienting, I know. The new perceptions…you'll get accustomed to them. I'll help you."

"No, this must be a dream, or an afterlife. My heart is still! My afterlife is in Illinois? Is that purgatory then? It can't be heaven…where is my family? Wait..." Dim memories from the hospital flooded my mind as I squeezed my eyes shut against them. "Where _is_ my family? My father is dead, isn't he?" I looked around to find him in this strange oil-painting-of-Illinois afterlife.

"Yes, I'm so sorry. Do you remember the hospital?"

"A little," I said, as a birdsong caught my attention from the open window. I shook the distraction away. _What was wrong with me? _"It's all jumbled, and dark…"

_Poor boy. It will be such a shock._

"What will?" I asked, looking at him. His eyes were wide again. This was getting annoying. "What? What will be shocking?" I remembered the hospital again, and realized that my last memories were of this man talking to my mother, trying to help her, as she struggled, and then…chaos around her bed. I took in a tortured gasp. "Oh, she's gone too, isn't she? My mother?" He didn't have to say anything; I could see on his face it was true. "Oh God, no!" I wailed, covering my face. I sobbed, but I was unable to cry. Everything was wrong.

"Edward, I'm so sorry." He was at my side, his hand on my shoulder; he was trying to comfort me. As he had been while I burned, I realized now. With my eyes covered, I recognized the harpsichord voice. It had been him, trying to help me all along.

"But where are they? If I'm dead, and they're dead, why aren't I with them?"

"You're not dead."

"Look," I said, frustrated beyond control, "I'm no doctor, but I know if your heart is still, you're dead. And my heart is still. And yet I speak. And breathe. It makes no sense!" Rage was starting to overwhelm me.

_We're vampi…_

"Vampires don't exist!" I yelled, looking up as I cut him off.

He froze, stunned. And then calmly continued. "They do, actually. I've been one a very long time." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "And now you are one too."

I stared at him. "No," I insisted.

"Your mother could tell you were dying. She asked me, begged me to save you."

"You don't think she might have been talking about medicine?" I asked sarcastically.

"She knew you were beyond that, she knew there was no other way, she wanted you to survive…like me."

And then I saw it. I saw his kind, worried face, and superimposed on it I saw my mother's haggard wan face pleading for me to be saved. _You are more than that._ _Save him as only you can. Promise me! Only you can save him! _The cello voice answered _I promise!_

"STOP THAT!" I cried. "What are you doing? Why are you doing that?"

His face was confused. "I'm not doing anything Edward, I'm just trying to explain…"

"I don't want to see her like that! Don't make me see her!"

He shook his head, genuinely confused, and then his eyes narrowed. I covered my face with my hands, trying to block out the vision of my mother so sick, so close to death. I tried to remember her beautiful and vibrant. It seemed very important that I recall these earlier memories of her…try to wash away the memories of her from the hospital.

_Edward?_

"WHAT?" I yelled, resenting the interruption. I did not want those memories of her. I wanted the other memories: on the shore, dancing with father, smiling at me with warm, sparkling eyes. I looked at him; his eyes were still narrow.

"I'm very sorry. I know this is a big adjustment, but I'm sure we…"

"There's no 'we'," I yelled. "My family is DEAD. I should be DEAD. You stole that from me…if this is even true. How _could_ you?" And then I saw something else in him. He'd been lonely. My mother's request had been a justification, but he'd acted from loneliness. He saw me as family, as a friend, as a son. "NO!" I cried viciously. "I had a father!" I said pushing him away. I backed away from him, toward the door. "My father is dead. And YOU…" I pointed at him accusingly. "You made me a monster!" My vision was changing again, like a veil of red had been put in front of my eyes. I snarled in frustration, overwhelmed with having yet another completely new experience when I already had lost so much of myself. "STAY AWAY FROM ME!"

I ran out the door and into the forest. The speed at which I was traveling startled me, distracting me momentarily. The red veil thinned as I found joy in the run, while simultaneously feeling all the pain of my innumerable losses. The burn in my throat, the pain in my mind, and the exultation of my limbs all propelled me forward, and away… away from him.

_Edward, NO! Stop, please! I need to help you!_

I could hear him pursuing me. I could hear the desperation in his voice. But it grew fainter as I pushed my legs to carry me faster, the forest starting to blur even in my new, ultra-accurate vision.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: These characters remain SM's._

* * *

EPOV

Grief and anger surged through my veins. My legs beat a furious rhythm, and wind whistled and screeched past my ears. The forest flew by me. This new body was startling in its speed and power. I was distracted by the fact I wasn't tiring. I was sure I'd already run a marathon, two perhaps, and I still felt that I could drive myself forward forever. I remembered sprinting in school, my mother watching my races, so proud. I stumbled at the thought of her. She would never see me run like this. I would never see her again. The pain twisted my face and made me trip. How could she ask him to do this to me? Did she understand what she'd asked for? The vision I'd seen had been his memory; I understood that now. How did he do that? How did he project his thoughts into people? If such a thing could be trusted, it seemed my mother had truly asked for this. The doctor wasn't lying, at least. But why had she done this? Did she not understand that this would leave me to spend the rest of my existence alone? It hurt so much. Why had she done it?

I stumbled again, sobbing, and then heard his faint footfalls still trailing me. I growled at his pursuit, and pushed myself again, not knowing where I was going. My breath raked against the back of my throat. Why did it still burn? The rest of my body no longer burned. On the contrary, it felt better than it had in weeks, perhaps better than ever. If my mind weren't filled with such anguish and anger, I'd actually be enjoying this run, this feeling of power. But while the rest of the fire had faded, the fire in my throat got worse and worse. Perhaps he'd done it wrong. Perhaps I was unfinished— but it felt different from the other burn. Dry. Scorched. While the searing fires I'd known before felt almost liquid, traveling through my veins like lava, this felt like parched, desiccated soil, cracked and damaged. And it was getting worse.

The forest continued to soar behind me, and I noticed all its detail: the way the needles on the ground cushioned my feet, the hundreds of shades of green, the smell of earth and spruce, and now, something else…something wonderful. The smell pulled me in a new direction. My throat flared, and I knew…somehow I just knew that whatever that smell was, it would put out the fire in my throat. I slowed my run so I could approach the aroma stealthily. It grew stronger and stronger, and the red veil fell across my vision again, but this time it felt natural, and I welcomed it. I moved quickly and silently through the forest, moving as though the smell pulled my throat forward and I were merely following—as if pursuit of this smell were not a choice, but an imperative. The closer I got to it, the more my throat burned, but the aroma soothed the edges of the pain; it was the promise of relief.

_Edward!_ I heard him shout in my mind and growled. And then the most sickening vision entered my mind: my mother's pale, lifeless body lying on the forest floor, her throat covered with blood.

"NO!" I screamed, knees buckling, stumbling blindly forward. The trees of the vision merged jerkily with the trees surrounding me, making me dizzy. "STOP THAT!" The vision changed. Now I looked down onto a room full of people, most of them panicked. They ran, screaming, in every direction, as other people dressed in black pounced on them, laughing, and biting their necks. It was a frenzied, horrifying vision. The people were obviously trapped; they could not escape, and they knew their fate as they watched others being killed and ripped. It was monstrous… heinous. I crumpled to the ground sobbing, trying to crawl away from the vision. I retreated on my hands until my back was against a tree and I could go no further. The vision went blank, and I could see the forest again, no red veil anymore, just as he leaped over a fallen log and crouched neatly in front of me. He grabbed my shoulders as if to restrain me, but immediately saw that I wasn't struggling, and loosened his grip. He put one hand on the back of my neck, and leaned his forehead into mine, his concern and relief palpable, radiating off him in waves.

_Edward, Edward, Edward. I wasn't too late. Thank God I wasn't too late. _The cello voice. His thoughts, I finally realized. He was acting like he'd just rescued a comrade in arms.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?" I screamed, sobbing. I couldn't catch my breath. I closed my eyes, but both visions seemed seared on the backs of my eyelids.

"Nothing, Edward, nothing. I swear!" He pulled back so he could look into my face, his hand still resting on the nape of my neck. "That vision was a lie. I promise I'll _never_ use your gift against you again…I'm sorry, but you're _so_ fast, and I had to do something to make you stop hunting. I would never hurt her, Edward. NEVER. That's not who I am. Look at me, Edward." The harpsichord voice. I finally understood his two voices. I refused to look at him; he was a fiend. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, shaking with my sobs.

_Edward, that's not how she died. You know that. Think of what you know. She was in the hospital; I was caring for her, trying to help her. You were aware part of the time, right at the end…I saw you lift your head. She succumbed to the flu. I can show you if you like, but I don't want to upset you further…_ It was all true, I knew it was, and yet I couldn't shake the vision. My body shook as I gasped for breath.

I opened my eyes and looked into his, pleading, wanting to believe him. "Show me," I finally choked. He sighed, brushed my hair from my face, and closed his eyes. I saw my mother, lying in the hospital bed, pale and thin, but with a peaceful face. I saw someone's hands, the nurse's maybe, cover her face with her sheet, and then the vision was gone. He opened his eyes and looked at me as I tried to steady my breathing. I believed him. I just didn't understand why he would do anything so cruel.

"Edward, I would never hurt her. I've been a doctor for over a hundred years. My calling is to help people; I don't hunt them. But _you_ were, and I had to stop you before there was more I needed to be forgiven for. That scent you were following was that of a human. Three, actually, if I smelled correctly. Two were younger, probably a mother with her children. You had turned yourself over to your instincts; if you had caught up with them, you would have killed them and drunk from them before you even knew what had happened. Edward, look at me," he said as my eyes grew wide with horror and I looked in the direction of the smell. I looked back into his eyes. "It's very important that you understand this. I made you a vampire, that's true. Your mother asked me to save you, but the act was mine and I take responsibility for it. But whether you become a _monster_ will be up to you. The instinct to hunt humans is strong, but not irresistible. I can show you a different way to live. I can show you what your mother saw in me—what she wanted for you. She did not want you to become a killer."

My sobs grew harsh again with the mention of my mother. I wiped my face with my hands, only to discover that there were no tears. That seemed impossible, considering the pain I felt.

"How can you know what she wanted? I can't believe she would have wanted me to be a vampire," I said angrily.

He sighed. "You were delirious much of the last week, but your mother was not. She was weak, and her body was failing, but her mind was lucid, and she was often awake during the night shift. I talked with her frequently, and she was amazingly perceptive and intelligent. She saw through my human façade…the first person in over a hundred years to do so. She saw that I was inhuman, and still treated me with kindness, and willingly received kindness from me. She judged me by my acts." He seemed incredulous. I remembered that too…thinking of him as an angel because he actually talked to us and smiled…the memory was faded, but true. He continued, "Your mother was a compassionate woman, Edward. She would not have asked me to change you if she thought it would make you a monster. She saw me as good. She saw that I could protect you. She asked me to promise her." I'd also seen that, in his memory.

"It was selfish of you," I accused.

"Yes," he admitted sadly. "I was granting your mother's dying wish, but my own motivations were selfish. I've…well, I've been alone a very long time." He sighed.

I looked up into the trees, still sobbing uncontrollably. "It was selfish of her, too," I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain of saying something bad about her, wishing tears would flow and wash away some of this anguish. When I looked at him again his face was full of sympathy. He released my neck, resting his hand on my shoulder for a moment, and then he rocked back so he was sitting on the ground next to me, facing me, his arms wrapped loosely over his knees. His face looked pensive.

"I never had a child, Edward, but I've watched humanity for a very long time. The desire to protect one's children is paramount. Your mother watched your father die, and others around you. She felt her own vitality slip away, and then knew the pain of watching her only son driven to delirium from the fever. Then she saw me, able to walk among the sick with no fear, able to linger, and talk, and remind her of her own humanity. She wanted that for you. She wanted to protect you from the illness that was claiming everything around her. Judge me harshly if you will, Edward, but show empathy for your mother."

I nodded and drew a jagged breath, trying again to stop crying and steady my breathing. It was no use. "She shouldn't have left me alone," I whispered.

_You're not alone._ I glared at him. I _was_ alone. As alone as I'd ever been in my life…days, existence…whatever it should be called now. This man wanted a family, but I wanted _my_ family. He didn't understand my feelings at all.

"Was the other vision a lie too?" I asked, wiping my face again, though there was still nothing on it. His expression turned grim.

"No, unfortunately. My imagination isn't that dark." He smiled bleakly. "Those were the Volturi in Italy, who rule our kind. I've witnessed them feeding several times; it's… utterly abhorrent." He closed his eyes and shook the memory away, then looked at me seriously again. "They will hunt you and destroy you if you do not follow our laws, Edward. I understand that you do not wish to stay with me, but it is really imperative that you allow me to teach you: teach you our laws, how to control your instincts rather than be controlled by them, and how to be civilized and mix with the human world. It will not take long, compared to a human childhood."

"I have to go to vampire school?" I asked a bit sarcastically.

"No, you would just live with me and allow me to be your…"

"Don't say parent!" I snarled, my anger quickly flaring up through my pain.

"…mentor," he finished simply.

I looked up at the branches overhead again, my breaths still ragged. This was not as good as actually crying. There was no cathartic release. "How long?" I finally asked.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he thought. "Your appetite and instincts will become easier to control after about a year. It is shorter for some of us, longer for others. We will just have to see how things progress, and when we agree together that you can exhibit control, and understand how to avoid the notice of the Volturi, you will be free to go and live your own life. In the meantime, I will teach you what you need to know to get by in the world in the manner you choose, and protect you from your instincts until you have mastery over them."

My mind turned to that mother and her children. I could have destroyed them. My face twisted in horror at the thought of what I might have done, the mother already having _my_ mother's face in my imagination. I could envision pouncing on her, and having the children run and scream in terror, just like the second vision. The doctor's visions would be excellent motivation for me. I did not want to be any part of either scene. I did not ask for this; I did not want to be a monster. If the doctor…I didn't even know his name… if he could help me avoid being a monster, I had to consider staying with him, as difficult as that thought felt at the moment. "And you'll teach me how to be a vampire without killing people?" I finally asked. He smiled and I could read the relief in his mind.

"Yes, of course Edward," he said.

"Don't get any ideas, doctor. I'm not your long lost son!" I snarled, glaring at him. "I'm just smart enough to know when I'm in over my head."

"Of course," he said quickly. "And please, call me Carlisle." _Carlisle Cullen,_ I heard in his mind.

I nodded, looking down, still struggling to regain my breath and composure. The smell was much more faint, but I could still feel its draw; it disgusted me to feel that way, now that I knew what the aroma was.

"We should get started," Carlisle said, as if he could read my mind. "Your throat must be very painful."

"Yes!" I cried, amazed that he knew this. "Why is that? And how did you know?"

"You thirst," he said simply, "and I remember being a newborn, vividly." He frowned slightly. "Come," he said, standing and holding his hand out to help me up. "Let's get you away from humans, and I'll teach you to hunt."

I continued staring at him, not moving. "Hunt what?"

"Animals," he said, and I caught a vision of it in his thoughts…I was compelled and repulsed simultaneously. "Did you not eat meat in your last life?" he asked as I hesitated.

"Yes, but…"

He shrugged and held out his hand to me, eyebrow raised. When I continued to hesitate he added, "Your throat will only get worse until you feed, and it will become harder to control your instincts as you weaken. Trust me; I know this from personal experience."

I saw a flicker of pain on his face before his gentle smile curved his lips. I sighed, and reached up to grab him around the wrist. He grimaced slightly as he helped me up, but then smiled as we let go of each other. "That hurt you?" I asked, having picked up the pain in his thoughts. How did he do that?

"Newborns…new vampires…are very strong. And fast, in your case. Until we get safely from civilization, I'm going to have to ask you to slow your pace enough that I can keep up." I nodded, thinking that he kept talking about how old he was, but he didn't look much older than me. "We'll just keep on this heading," he said pointing, "until we get far enough away, and then we'll stop and I'll give you some instructions, agreed?" he asked, motioning for me to start. I nodded, and started jogging, hoping that was slow enough for him. He ran at my side, his thoughts on the scents around him, trying to make sure that there were no humans. I could sense what he smelled, and heard him identify it; then I smelled it myself and remembered the identification. It was hard to keep my pace slow. I felt emotionally exhausted, having experienced such intense and varied feelings since waking. But even with the now severe pain in my throat, running brought joy… a joy tempered only by the fact that I shouldn't run as fast as I wanted to because Carlisle, the old man as he claimed, couldn't keep up. Frustration flashed across my mind, but I beat it back, reminding myself that, as much as I didn't want to, I needed him. And anyway, I'd been taught by my parents to respect my elders. After five minutes or so he stopped.

"Let's try here. Take a minute to get a sense of your surroundings. What do you hear, and smell?" I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and then held it so I could hear everything around me. And I really could hear _everything_ around me. It was amazing. There was a stream to the southeast, emptying into still water… a lake to the south. There were hundreds of…birds it sounded like, swimming and flying, ducks or geese I supposed. Another stream entered the lake on the west side, but this stream must have had a broad marsh associated with it…I could smell the rotten egg odor of the water-logged soil— a faint breeze came from that direction. I could hear the buzzing of millions of insects, and their footfalls too, I noticed, looking down to see a centipede near my feet. I closed my eyes again, muttering, "This is incredible." I heard Carlisle's soft chuckle. I continued to sweep from west to north and then east, hearing birds and beetles and flies, and the wind whistling through the spruce to the north. Then the wind changed, and I caught a new scent. Concentrating on it, I heard a heartbeat, and fluid pulsing through arteries. It didn't smell good to me, but that was a relief, since it meant it wasn't human…and the sound was quite compelling. I opened my eyes.

"There's something to the northwest," I said. "Maybe a deer…"

Carlisle's eyes grew wide. "Very good," he said. "How do you know what it is?"

"I heard you identify that smell while we ran," I answered, and his mouth formed a thin line. Perhaps he hadn't meant to project that thought, though it seemed harmless enough.

"I see. Well, you're right. And there are probably more than one…deer are rarely alone. How does it smell?"

"Bad," I said. He laughed. "But the sound is making my mouth water. What's funny?" My anger was flaring again. I didn't enjoy being laughed at.

"I like the smell… an artifact of personal history, I imagine. Do you want to hunt it, or try to find something else?" I considered. It really didn't smell good, but my throat was incredibly painful, and the sound was so appetizing. Which repulsed me when I thought about it, but it was still true. I grimaced.

"What do I do?" I asked finally.

"What do you want to do?"

"What I did before, with the humans, but that didn't work out so well. What if there are others near here that we can't smell right now?"

"I was monitoring for humans during our entire run; none are out here. There are no settlements for two hundred miles in any direction, and that deer isn't more than twenty-five miles away. I'm being very careful, Edward."

I sighed and nodded, still not knowing how to start. Finally, my throat decided for me, and started to pull me in the direction of the deer. I resisted, not liking the sensation of déjà vu. The last time I'd followed this imperative, it had ended in pain. I took another deep breath to steady myself. "If I start chasing a human again, you'll stop me?"

He smiled sympathetically. "How should I stop you?"

"With the Volturi. Not the…not my mother," I whispered. He nodded. I swallowed, bracing myself. "Unless I don't stop," I added.

"It won't come to that again, Edward. I'm being very careful. You can let yourself go here, give yourself over to your nature. Hunting is instinctual. Don't over-think it; I'll protect you." I looked into his face. He was confident. I made the conscious decision to trust him, and then stopped thinking consciously as I let my throat and hearing lead me to the pulsing heart. Carlisle followed a distance back, which I found comforting, but also alarming, as though I was worried he would steal my deer. The thought was distracting, and I slowed, trying to decide what to do. He stopped, giving me space. That was enough to calm whatever instinct had found his pursuit threatening, and I continued after the deer, my vision glazing red again. I crept up to the forested edge of a small clearing, and could see the deer in the middle, grazing. I watched it carefully, and though I wanted pounce on it, I couldn't see how to do it without scaring it away. It would hear me coming, and run, wouldn't it? The red haze cleared as I puzzled over the problem.

_Edward? Are you alright? _

_I don't know what to do,_ I thought back.

_Edward! What's wrong? You've stopped hunting. _Odd. So he couldn't hear my thoughts, he could only project his own. That was interesting.

"I don't know what to do," I repeated as a whisper. The deer's ears pricked up and she looked around before starting to graze again. Carlisle was by my side in an instant.

"Do you want to watch once?" he whispered back. I nodded. He looked me in the eyes, to make sure I was paying attention. Then he looked at the deer, and the formation of the trees around the clearing. Then he ran, not toward the deer, but to a tree directly to its right. He planted a foot on the trunk of the tree and launched himself at the deer, knocking it over onto its left side while he sunk his teeth into its neck. It had happened nearly instantaneously. One moment he was standing next to me, and the next moment he was crouched over the deer's neck, drinking. I felt startled; it had been graceful, beautiful, and powerful. I could feel the heat of the blood as he stood, wiping his mouth neatly. He said, "Come drink, Edward, before it gets cold."

I approached, watching him warily, my instincts telling me it was a bad idea for two vampires to be near one open throat, but he backed away. I crouched and drank greedily. It did not taste good, but it _felt_ amazing. After several minutes, no more blood came. "What's wrong with it?" I asked.

"It's drained," he said. "I assume you're still thirsty?"

I nodded. The burn in my throat had barely dulled.

"Your turn," he said, smiling.

I closed my eyes and reached out with my senses to find new prey. "What's that scent to the east? It's not deer."

Carlisle raised his face into the breeze. "It's a cat of some kind, and it's big, from the sound of its heart."

"Will I be able to kill it?" I asked.

"You are stronger and faster than anything out here. You needn't fear your prey," he reassured.

I nodded and started following the scent. My eyes glazed red again, and I realized that when this happened, my senses were even more attuned, more focused. I reached a large rock, where the cat was lying. It had just fed, the carcass of a rabbit lying near it. I realized that I needed to get above it. Feeling power surge through my legs, I copied Carlisle's move and propelled myself off several trunks, gaining height each time, until I was on one of the lower branches. I crouched, moving along the branch until I had a clear jump to the cat, and then pounced. I landed on it and sunk my teeth into its neck effortlessly, an amazing heated elixir flowing into my mouth, but my jump carried both the cat and I along the boulder to its edge, and we started to slip to the ground below. The seal of my lips broke, and blood flowed onto its fur, making it slippery. The cat was growling and struggling, and broke free momentarily, but I pounced again, and this time, I pinned it solidly. I _was_ stronger than it. I sunk my teeth back into its neck, mourning the blood that had spilled. It tasted wonderful, and seemed to penetrate the back of my throat like a heated rain infiltrating desert sands. I shuddered with pleasure as I drank, and felt real relief, which I'd started to fear would always elude me. I drained the cat, sucking hard to get every last drop. When I stood, my mind was clear, and my throat felt warm and raw, but not painful.

Carlisle was standing nearby. "That was very good," he said encouragingly. " Do you feel better, or do you need to drink more?"

"Better," I acknowledged. I looked down and realized my shirt was covered in blood. "Ugh," I scowled. "I'm a mess! How disgusting!" Carlisle fought back a smile.

"You did very well, Edward."

I looked at his shirt; it was perfectly clean. "You're not wearing _your_ meal," I complained.

"Well to be fair, herbivores don't put up as much of a fight, and I have quite a bit more practice. Are you sure you don't want to hunt some more?"

"I'm feeling pretty full, and my throat is better."

He nodded. "Well then maybe we should head ho… to the house, and you can get cleaned up. I'll lend you some clean clothes until we can get more in your size." He'd finished the word _home_ in his mind, but was working hard to not offend me. I resented admitting it, but he really was being kind to me. I sighed, and his look became concerned. I shook my head.

"I don't think I can find it, you'd better lead the way." He nodded and started to turn toward the house. "Carlisle?"

"Yes, Edward?" he asked, turning back.

"Thank you for stopping me when I was hunting those humans. It was awful, but not as awful as it would have been if, if…"

"You're welcome," he said warmly. Then his face became serious. "And thank _you_ for allowing me to teach you." I nodded, smiling grimly, and motioned for him to lead the way. We ran together, and my limbs felt a joy that couldn't quite reach my mind.


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: I, like the rest of us, do not own the Twilight characters, and do not intend any copyright infringement._

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CPOV

We crossed the small stream north of the house as we approached, and I bent down to collect a stone from the creek bed.

_Edward…_ I tossed the stone to him and he turned and caught it neatly, slowing to match my pace as we walked toward the house.

"What's this for?"

"A demonstration. I'd like to go over a few ground rules for the house before we go inside."

"House rules?" he asked skeptically.

"Nothing too onerous, I hope. Do you know much about geology?" He scowled, which I took to mean that he did not. "Most rocks around here are sandstone or shale, fairly soft, as rocks go. But _that_ is a piece of gneiss, probably brought down from Canada during the last glaciation. It's a metamorphic rock…quite hard."

"Fascinating." His expression belied the word.

"I'd like you to crush it." Now he looked interested.

"Crush it with what?"

"Your hand, of course." Now his expression was positively amusing. "Go on…"

He scowled again, and then his eyes grew wide as the rock was pinched to sand between his fingers. He stared at me.

"There are many things in the house that might seem as hard as rock… like the bathtub," I said, eying his shirt. "And there are other things that are much more fragile, like the faucets. Until you are used to your new strength, I ask that you take exceptional care with how you handle things… I'm an excellent surgeon, but a terrible plumber, and it would be unwise to call one in from town, if there are any… casualties among the pipes." He nodded, smirking. "Unless it's a skill _you_ were wanting to acquire…" I added.

"No, I'll try to be careful. Anything else?"

"I have many possessions throughout the house, and you are welcome to look at any of them without asking first, except for the things in the bookcase behind my desk, and the paintings in the study. They are more difficult to replace — some are actually irreplaceable — and I'd like to help you when you are looking at them, at least for now."

"Fair enough." He watched me intently as I struggled to find the proper phrasing for the last rule. "And…"

"And, I don't think you should leave the house unless I'm with you for the time being. We are not really that far out of town, and if the wind is from the south…"

He frowned, but nodded.

"We can move in a few weeks, if we find it's too difficult, but for now we need to stay nearby."

"Whatever you think," he said irritably, looking down at his shirt. Right. He wanted a bath.

"Come on then, let's get you settled in." I showed him up to the house, and let him in the front door. This was one of my more modest homes…I really didn't need much. Location was always my primary concern; my homes needed to be near a hospital, and near a hunting ground, and as isolated as possible. I suddenly wished I had settled a bit further from the northern suburbs of Chicago, but the small farm house had been perfect for _my_ needs at the time I found it…I couldn't have known it would feel close and cramped in the course of a week.

"That's the study, parlor, and dining room," I said, pointing to each of the rooms as we passed their entries, "and there's a kitchen in the back, though there's nothing much in it." I led him up the stairs. "This room is yours, and here's the only bathroom." I started the bathwater. "I'll go get you some towels and fresh clothes." I looked at him for the first time and realized that his eyes held a mixture of fear, pain and resignation behind their scowl. He was no longer angry, but he was hardly happy. He sighed and glared at me, and I left to collect the items I needed. When I returned he was sitting gingerly on the edge of the tub, very carefully adjusting the water temperature. "If you're okay for a bit, I need to run into town. I'll be back within an hour, and I'm sure you'd like a bit of privacy." _Physical and mental._ He smirked. "Please, just don't…"

"I won't leave. I'll take my bath and go explore the parlor. The books in there are okay for me to look at?"

"You are welcome to use anything in the parlor. All right. I'll be back soon." I tried to not think of my errand, but I wasn't sure I _could_ actually hide a thought from him.

"No need to rush," he called after me as I walked down the hall. Yes, we could both use a bit of mental privacy.

I checked that all the windows were closed, so no scents could tempt him outside, and then ran toward town. I tried to keep my mind focused on the scenery until I was at least a mile from the house. Based on how long it took me to stop him with my thoughts during his hunt, I surmised that was his approximate range for reading thoughts. We'd have to experiment with that later.

I slowed my pace to give myself time to absorb the implications of the day so far, and most especially of Edward's gift. It was shocking. I had, of course, wanted a companion to share my home and my time with…I had longed for it for as long as I could remember. However, I had never anticipated sharing my every thought! That sort of intimacy, after being so completely isolated for centuries, was terrifying. And suddenly I came to a brief halt at the edge of the forest, an ancient memory flooding my mind: my own father, standing by the fireplace of our home in London, saying, "Be careful what you wish for — for the Lord works in mysterious ways." He does indeed… He does indeed.

I started walking, at human speed, to the public library. What was I going to do about Edward's gift? It seemed completely involuntary, like a sixth sense. He simply heard thoughts as well as words, without trying. I imagine if he _tried_, he'd hear even more…like paying attention in a conversation. I doubted he could help it, which would mean that though I might resent the invasion of my privacy, I would have to try to keep any resentful thoughts out of my mind in his presence if at all possible. Especially since, as my long-dead father had pointed out, I'd clearly brought it on myself. I shook my head, laughing at the irony.

And I should be grateful for his gift. Without it, I don't know how I would have stopped him from hunting, and I could hardly bear to consider the consequences of that. Three dead innocents, maybe more, before I could have stopped my… what? My creation, my son, my companion? Those deaths would have been on my conscience, blackening my soul. Edward could not be held responsible. I had been very, very careless, and very lucky that he had a gift, and I was able to discern it. I would have to talk to him before we hunted again. I did not want to exploit his gift for the purpose of control, and I'd certainly never use the false vision of his mother again, but he was much too fast for me to stop any other way if he had a head start…we'd have to negotiate something.

I finally approached my destination. The library always kept a week's supply of newspapers on hand; I knew I could review the legal notices and obituaries I'd missed during Edward's transformation. I hadn't left Edward's side for days, and needed to see how the Masens' death and estate were being reported, so I could know what to do next for Edward's inheritance. It was most critical to confirm that Edward had not been declared dead or missing. And I needed to know _exactly _when the Masens' house would be removed from quarantine, and when the solicitors would likely descend.

A few moments with the papers afforded me all I needed to know. The Masens' obituaries were reported in today's paper, along with a sentence about their surviving son, who was currently out of the area recovering from the illness that had claimed his parents. I let out a long breath. It was perfect, exactly as I needed it. I would buy a copy of the paper on the way home, so he could keep it if he wanted.

The information on the estate was a bit more difficult to find, but it was buried there, in a list of homes going on and off quarantine. The Masens' home would be off the list in four days. I rubbed my fingers over my brow, thinking of the various risks…the risk of taking Edward, still so young, to his parents' house, versus the risk of losing the inheritance if the proper papers were not located. It would have to be his choice. I would propose the options to Edward and let him decide.

I stopped to purchase a copy of the paper, and then ran back, hoping that Edward would feel refreshed, physically and mentally. I was shocked when I entered the house. The gramophone was playing Schubert, but there were broken pieces of records all over the parlor floor, and Edward was nowhere to be seen.

_Edward? _"Edward!"

"I'm here." And then I saw him, sitting on the floor, hugging his knees to himself and rocking. I knelt beside him and saw that his eyes were already very dark again.

"You need to hunt again."

"Is that it? I thought I was going mad. I'm sorry about your records…the music helps distract me, but they're very fragile…it took a while before I could get one set up without crushing it, especially when my throat started burning suddenly."

"They're easily replaced; think nothing of it."

"I'm glad you say that, because I ruined _all_ my favorites trying to play them first." He looked exasperated with himself. I reached for his hand…his eyes were so dark I was afraid of taking him hunting without the physical contact… I needed to be able to restrain him, and I'd promised myself not to use his gift against him if it could be helped.

"It's fine, Carlisle, let's just go." I wasn't sure which of my thoughts were 'fine', but his willingness to leave was all I really needed at the moment. I led him back across the creek, and we ran northwest. I smelled the herd as he asked, "Deer?"

"Moose," I answered. "They're bigger, which will help. You go ahead," I said releasing his hand, "we're far from civilization now." He nodded and bolted off with confidence, which left me feeling strangely proud. When I caught up with him a few minutes later, he was halfway through draining a large bull moose, and had only gotten a bit of blood on his shirt. He might even avoid a bath this time. His lips broke the seal and blood squirted across his arm.

"Don't make me laugh when I'm doing this," he growled. "Now I _do_ need a bath." He went back to feeding.

_Sorry._ I smiled as I watched him finish. He stood finally, and looked at the blood on his shirt and rolled his eyes.

"My days are going to get really boring if all I do is feed, bathe, and do laundry…"

"This won't last forever," I reassured. "You're already getting neater, and you won't need to feed so often as you get older. I can go weeks between meals and work at the hospital without a problem. And I'll try not to think anything you might find amusing while you're feeding from now on…" I added. He glared at me, but I caught the faintest hint of a smile as he shook his head.

"How often will I need to feed for now?"

"I'm not sure, but probably several times a day, depending on the size of your meals. How do you feel now?"

"Soiled, sated."

"Do you want to head back and bathe again?"

"I suppose. Do you need to leave again?" I shook my head. "Good. I have some questions."

"I don't doubt it." He started walking back, and I matched his pace. He seemed to have no trouble finding his way back this time.

"I can follow our trails back directly now," he answered my question without my voicing it. "And I've spent enough time in the house now, I remember what it smells like this time. Why do you keep calling it _my_ gift? I'm not the one projecting thoughts."

That startled me. He thought this was _my_ doing? "Edward, I'm not projecting anything. I'm just thinking. You can somehow hear it."

He stopped and stared at me, his face searching mine…no doubt his thoughts searching mine as well. "But when I was hunting, you called my name."

"Yes, it seems I can think your name and get your attention, but you were plucking thoughts from my head long before I had the desire to share any with you. Think of it like hearing. You can be hearing things all around you, but not _listening_ to them. When I thought your name, you were distracted with your hunt. I'd been thinking of that image for several moments before I got your attention. I'm sorry," I added as he winced. I made sure that my mind was full of the trees around us. "You were distracted, so I thought your name so you would 'listen', just as I would have done if I were talking and you weren't paying attention. I wasn't projecting the thought into your mind; I just got your attention so you would pull it from mine."

"How do you know, how do you know it's me and not you?" He started walking toward the house again.

"Like I said, you took many thoughts before I knew you could. And if I were able to project thoughts, surely you wouldn't be the first person to hear them…it must be you."

"Is that common? Among vampires, I mean. I know you can't hear my thoughts…I tried answering you and you clearly didn't hear me, but what about others?"

"It's not common. Any gift at all is rare, and mind reading is extremely rare. I know of only one other, and he needs to touch in order to read. However once he's touched you, he can see any thought you've ever had, and every memory; you are a completely open book before him. It's very unsettling."

Edward read my discomfort. "I don't think that's how mine works. I think I only hear what you are thinking at a given moment… I still don't know anything about you from before we met, unless you've thought about it in my presence, like that vision of the Volturi." He shuddered slightly and looked at me. "It's hard for you, that I can hear your thoughts."

I sighed. _No. Not able to hide a thought…_

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, I'm sorry, Edward. It _is_ hard for me. It was going to be a challenge to share my home after so many years alone, but I'm happy to do it. Ecstatic really, which I'm sure is hard for you. I'm sure my… eagerness… is difficult to take in your present state, especially since you seem to be bombarded with it through my thoughts." He winced again. "This is more intimacy than I expected, and more than I'm comfortable with, but I do not resent you for it."

"Yes you do."

"No. I'm just going to have to adjust to the lack of privacy, and I've been a very private man for a very long time…too private, for too long. I suppose I'm making up for lost time," I said with a small smile. "Really, Edward. You cannot help it, and I cannot fault you. I just ask that you consider the fact that I can't help my thoughts any more than you can help hearing them, and try not to judge me too harshly for them."

He walked in silence, considering my words.

"Why do you keep thinking about my parents' house?"

I laughed, realizing, for once and for all, how little choice I had in sharing any plans with Edward.

"I'm trying to secure your inheritance for you. I arranged the notes on the hospital records so it appeared that you were released after your parents' death. I left today to confirm that the public obituary read that way. And I needed to see when your family home would go off the quarantine list. I will do everything in my power to secure the entire estate for you, but we need some documents, and it might be prudent for you to take some keepsakes now, in case we are unsuccessful…"

"You want me to visit the house? But, it will be surrounded by humans!"

"Well, we could go in the middle of the night, right after a hunt. It's unlikely we'd see any humans, and if you could just manage to not breathe, we could probably make it there and back without incident."

"Probably? I don't know, Carlisle, that sounds like a huge risk."

"It is. I won't deny it. And we might be able to secure your inheritance without the trip. I could forge documents easily, but if the real ones were to show up in a safe deposit box or in the house, it could make our claims tenuous… The choice has to be yours, Edward. We can go together to the house, taking all the precautions we can, or you can just send me, and I can do my best. But either way, I think it's best if we visit the house and try to find the documents. Did you father have a safe deposit box?"

"No, he had a safe in his study. I don't think I can remember the combination," he said as he struggled with his memories.

"That's not unusual," I said gently. "Our human memories fade as we leave that life behind. If you think about your parents often in your first several months, you'll be able to retain more of the memories. I wasn't aware of that until late in this life, and consequently have very few recollections of my human life." He nodded. "However, you shouldn't worry about that particular memory. We are vampires, with excellent hearing and dexterity. Cracking a safe combination will _not_ be an issue."

His face broke into a grin, and he shook his head. "I suppose it all has to be good for something," he laughed. His smile faded. "Would we have to go tonight?"

"No, I think that would be unwise. The house goes off quarantine in four days, so we can go Thursday, when the whole neighborhood is sleeping. That would give you several more hunts. We could even practice skirting the neighborhood the night before just to see how you handle it. Or we can drop the whole thing, though I don't recommend that. This is your estate, your inheritance; I'll do whatever you want in this regard. I'm just trying to keep your options open for you.

"But, I don't understand; how can I inherit when I'm dead?"

"You're not dead, Edward, we've been over this before. Do you know Mr. Campbell? He's listed as a contact in your parents' medical records for issues pertaining to payments. Is he the executor of the estate?

"Probably… He's a lawyer like my father, but specializes in property law I think."

"Does he know you well?"

"I haven't seen him for years. He's a business associate of my parents, but not really a friend. Still, I think he'd notice red eyes." He looked sideways at me.

_You saw that when you were alone? I'm sorry._

"When I was getting ready for my bath, I looked in the mirror. That was shocking."

_I'm sorry, I should have warned you._

"You were busy." He paused, focusing on his long strides that were carrying us to the house much faster than expected. "It brought the whole vampire thing home, though. Why don't I look like you?" His voice sounded almost hurt.

"You do, other than your eyes. They'll fade to gold over several months of a diet of animal blood. Vampires who feed on humans retain the crimson eyes."

"Like the Volturi in the vision."

"Yes, like most of our kind, actually. I agree that we can't have a meeting with any solicitors until your eyes fade, but we can take care of preliminaries by mail."

"Have _you_ ever tasted human blood?"

"Only once," I said, and before I could help it the memory of Edward's transformation flashed in my mind. I quickly attempted to purge it, think of something else, but it was too late. He froze.

"It was me?" he whispered. He'd seen the bite that caused his own transformation _through my eyes_. How could he forgive me for that? No one should have to see that. I braced myself for his fury.

"Oh, GOD, I tasted _good_!" He swayed, and then his knees crumpled. I knelt by him, taking his face between my hands.

_Edward! Edward…_

"I tasted good," he said, intensely, looking into my eyes. His hands had come up to clutch at my arms.

_Yes, _I admitted. There was no point trying to hide it from him.

"Carlisle, how did you _stop_?" he asked incredulously. He was viewing this as a vampire? Not as a victim? Not as _himself_?

_With great difficulty._ The memory flashed again: the two superimposed faces that had passed through my mind as I drank from Edward. The two faces that had allowed me to pull away from his open throat. The first face was full of hope and passion; the second was full of fire and death.

"Who was that?"

"Your mother," I answered, knowing he was referring to the faces in the vision. I cursed myself that he had to see this. His gift was cruel.

"I know that one," he spat impatiently. Right. Of course he knew that one.

"Aro," I answered, naming the second face. "One of the Volturi…a friend, in some respects. Cultured, civilized, knowledgeable, always curious…but you've seen his dining habits." I shuddered. "He is everything I fear I could become, if I were to succumb to the siren song of human blood. Superimposed with your mother, it was all my fear and all my hope..."

"And that's what allowed you to release me? You didn't want to be like him?"

I nodded. "And I wanted to be worthy of your mother's faith in me." He took several steadying breaths. His eyes bore into mine, his mind into mine, and then he released my arms and sat back against a tree for a moment, shuddering with emotion.

_I'm sorry you had to see that._

He waved an arm and shook his head, then ran his hands through his hair. He was still absorbing it, still coming to grips with what must be very conflicting emotions… seeing it from my perspective, knowing my motivations…all of them, no doubt… but also seeing one of the Volturi and knowing that if I had been like them, he'd already have killed. He would already be a monster. And through the whole vision he could see his own body starting to twitch in the background… taste the flavor of _his own blood_! It wasn't right.

"No one should have to see that."

He laughed derisively. "Well, my _gift,_ as you call it, has a dark side. It's also my curse. One of my many new curses." I flinched at that, and he looked at me, not quite apologetically, but less accusatorily than I would have expected.

"It's fine, Carlisle. I understand now."

_What do you understand?_

He shook his head. He sat a few more moments, running his hands through his hair and crushing his palms into his forehead while I studied him. He slowly relaxed, and then cringed when he saw the blood on his shirt again. He got up and started slowly moving toward the house again.

"I'm still trying to comprehend why you're doing this… about the estate," he clarified, realizing I was still braced for some sort of onslaught for changing him, or making him see his own change. "I'll never be able to live in that house. Why bother inheriting it?" he asked wistfully.

My thoughts softened as I heard the pain in his voice. "You can't live there anytime soon, that's true, but you might be able to live there someday. And you certainly have more right to the possessions within the home than your distant relatives, who would likely not treasure them as you would." His face became hard and his eyes flashed. "So you see my motivation. Also, the way we live, it is nice to have some wealth at your disposal. I'm happy to share with you, but if you ever chose to leave me, you would need your own resources, and your youthful appearance will make it harder for you in certain professions. As you can see, there are many advantages to securing the estate." He nodded thoughtfully. "I could try to go alone, but you are going to have a much better idea of where the papers are likely located, and also, what items you value enough to take now. Once the quarantine has been lifted, someone is going to come and catalog the estate…if you want to remove anything, it would be best to do it before that happened."

He nodded again, slowly. "What did you mean about not breathing?"

"We don't need oxygen. You don't _need_ to breathe, but it facilitates your sense of smell… a very important sense for us. So not breathing is uncomfortable, but hardly impossible. I've held my breath for hours, even as a newborn." He looked skeptical. "Try it," I encouraged.

He gave me a curious look, and then took a deep breath and held it. We walked the rest of the way to the house, went upstairs, and he started the bath again, making eye contact with me to show that he was being careful.

_Is it uncomfortable, not breathing?_ He shrugged. _I'll get you more clean clothes. Then after your bath, I have some things to show you. _He nodded, and I realized that we would be able to communicate just fine if he decided to go to the house, as long as I remembered to use yes and no questions. He smiled slightly at my realization.

I returned a few moments later with the clothes and towels, and told him I'd be downstairs when he was done. I cleaned up the mess in the parlor, noting that the favorite records he'd broken consisted of three by Chopin, two by Bach, a Vivaldi and a Debussy. Easily replaced. I selected another Bach concerto to listen to during his bath, and when he came down a half hour later in clean clothes and damp hair, his expression was much more relaxed. He actually smiled at me as he exhaled.

_You held that breath all that time?_

"Yes, and it was easier than I thought it would be. That's good to know, for hunting."

"Well, you're young enough that once you've tasted the scent of human blood on the air, you might not have the willpower to hold your breath, but it is certainly something to try."

"What did you want to show me?"

"There on the table," I said, and continued reading my book so he'd have the illusion of privacy while looking through his meager possessions. I heard him gasp as he recognized his mother's ring. He sat slowly on the sofa, and fingered the ring delicately, caressing it, and slipping it onto the top of his finger. Then his hands clenched he buried his face in his fists, desperately fighting for some kind of control.

_Be careful not to crush it,_ I reminded him. He nodded and set the ring gently back on the table, covering his face with his hands once more. I ached as I watched his suffering, not knowing whether to approach him, or give him more privacy… hoping that my silent vigil with him would be comforting rather than awkward. After a long moment, he picked up the cigarette case and opened it. To my surprise, several pictures fell onto the table. He picked them up with such care and love it was heartbreaking to watch.

"He gave up smoking several years ago. He continued to carry it so he'd have a safe place to hold these photos, and because everyone he knew still carried little silver boxes like this." He smiled affectionately at the memory, and I smiled too. "He still wanted to be like the rest of them. I think my mother gave him the box for one of their anniversaries." He picked up his father's ring, and rolled it around in his fingers. He flinched when it made a soft _clink_ as he dropped it into his other hand, and the heirloom of his human life met with his vampire skin. "Where did you get these?"

"Those three items were at the hospital… the only possessions your parents had with them. I made sure to collect them before we left. The newspaper I bought today." He nodded and picked it up. He read the obituary several times, gliding his fingers over the text. Then he picked the pictures up again. His brow furrowed as he studied them. He placed them back in the silver box, and turned it slightly, watching how the light moved across the imperfections of the silver plate.

"I want to go to the house, Carlisle," he said softly after a few moments. "You're right; I want my parents' things…some of them at least. Thanks for getting all of this…" he held up the box. "It means a lot to me."

"We'll get the rest, Edward. If it's what you want, we'll make it happen. Let's get a few more hunting trips under your belt, and then we'll attempt it." He continued to study the silver box, turning over in his hands as he thought.

"Carlisle?" he asked quietly.

"Yes Edward?"

He sighed. "Would you teach me how to do laundry?"

I smiled and put my book down. "Follow me."


	5. Chapter 5

_AN: These are SM's characters. I'm just playing. The music for this chapter can be found on the web play list (link from my profile)._

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CPOV

In my many years since leaving the Volturi, I'd wandered across Europe and North America. I'd always lived alone. My days were usually filled with friendly acquaintances and suspicious strangers, but at home, where no other being could join me, my most consistent companion had been Solitude.

She was, as a general rule, unpleasant company.

She would slip into the room, unbidden, when I was not expecting her. Or at least I told myself she was unexpected… that my mind was occupied with reading, or my own thoughts, that I was not wanting company. But I was lying to myself; I always expected her… dreaded her, and expected her. She would come in as I read on one end of the sofa, and would sit on the other end… I could almost feel the shift in the cushions. I would move to the chair, and she would stand by the bookcase across the room, so that if my eyes raised up above the edge of the page I read, I would see her fleeting shadow. The harder I tried to concentrate on my reading, and _not _look up, the firmer her ghostlike appearance became.

Implicit in her presence was judgment: _If you were worthy of better company,_ she would whisper in my mind, _you would have it._

Solitude was a cruel, if loyal, companion.

I'd developed habits that helped keep her at bay… kept her cruel thoughts from accusing me in the night. I would stroke the edge of the cover of the book while I read, the gentle, rhythmic sound giving the illusion that someone else was in the room; that I wasn't alone. I would build a fire, the warmth and smell and crackling sounds reminding me of vague memories of my home in London… memories vague enough to feel almost pleasant. The gramophone had been a marvelous invention… it had kept her at bay for months. Each night, a new concert played in the parlor, and I was rapt, surrounded by unseen musicians who possessed sensitivity and grace. I was in the audience, and could almost hear the breathing and soft murmurs of those around me. But eventually I realized that the only other member of the audience was she. The scratches on the records made the music sound hollow, and the gramophone remained silent after that.

In an attempt to flee her, I would read outside by the light of the moon, so I could be surrounded by the noises of the forest. But the crickets, it seemed, were Solitude's allies, and their song would make me lonelier and depressed. I started working the night shifts of the hospitals I served. This had been wonderful… I never had to miss work to avoid the sun, and if the day were rainy or overcast, I could go immediately to the shelter or free clinic to volunteer. There were days when I'd only spend a mere hour at home, bathing and changing before my next shift. I would wave to Solitude as I left the house again, smug that she had not had a chance to deflate me with her thoughts. But her stare would cut through me. _You cannot hide from me, _she would silently say. And she would be right. Eventually, I would slow my frantic pace, wearily sitting on my sofa, and I would feel the cushions shift next to me again.

There was no comfort in her presence. There was no warm touch. No acceptance. She knew me, of course, but judged harshly. Solitude refused to see any value in my pursuits. She refused to join in conversation, bored with my thoughts, but not enough, apparently, to leave them to myself. She mocked my philosophy, and scorned my morals. Like Aro. She was much like Aro… less kind, actually. Aro, at least, had never been bored.

Aro was the only being who had ever _truly_ seen me. I remembered the first time he had taken my hand and I felt the invasion of his mind as he sifted through mine, uncovering every awful memory, sharing it with me, and then discarding it. He'd been like a rough lover: intrusive, uncaring, seeking only his own satisfaction. In the end I'd felt exposed and fragile, but still the intimacy had been thrilling, and had forged a bond. If Aro had approved of what he'd found in me, I might be in Italy still, despite my revulsion. But he had not. I was a puzzle to him, a curiosity, and at times an abomination. He mocked my philosophy and scorned my morals, but always with a slight gleam in his eye and twitch on his lips. That is why I'd stayed as long as I had… in hopes that Aro would approve all he saw, if only he looked enough times. I'd returned to his rough ministrations repeatedly seeking some sort of sanction, only to realize in time that I was looking for absolution from the wrong source. Only God could offer it, and He was very, very quiet most nights. Aro could never find value in me, and eventually the intimacy was a burden, not a thrill. So I left.

And now there was Edward, shuffling across the floor upstairs. Solitude had left the moment I'd carried Edward through the door, though I still saw her faintly sometimes, standing over his shoulder as he glared at me for some stray thought he found offensive. She was waiting, in case he left. But so far, he'd stayed.

Edward also read my mind, though I never felt him sifting through it the way Aro had. I never felt invaded or laid bare. His gift was more subtle, and much easier to take. I was embarrassed, of course, that he had to see the parts of me I wished to hide, but a part of me was also secretly… well actually, not so secretly… thrilled that the intimacy was foisted upon me. It was terrifying and thrilling and left me wondering if Edward would approve me, at least in part… I could be satisfied if at least he approved some small part, found some small value. And though it made me feel vulnerable and slightly pathetic to be looking for validation from a seventeen-year-old child — I, who had seen more of the world than he could dream of — it was true, nonetheless.

Edward, of course, had also lost Solitude since sharing a home with me. He seemed to miss her more. He'd like to be alone with his thoughts so he could mourn his parents properly, without my hopeful ponderings intruding his mind. He probably felt something similar to what I'd felt with Aro. I'd been invaded by an indifferent mind that stole my most private thoughts; he was invaded, having _my_ most private thoughts thrust upon him. Where I'd been embarrassed by Aro's intrusion, Edward no doubt felt annoyance at being constantly bombarded with my musings. But there was an important difference. Aro had willfully taken my thoughts. I'd had little choice in the matter, but he had. As I became less pleased by the intimacy, I resented his infringement on my mind. But my current situation was different. My thoughts were unconscious, and Edward took them unconsciously… against his will, even. It made us both more willing to forgive the other, despite the annoyance.

And that Edward was annoyed I had little doubt. I would sit in my study, reading medical journals, and I would suddenly be overwhelmed with joy at just hearing his footfalls as he paced in his room, and suddenly they would stop. _Sorry,_ I would think, and try to read. He'd sigh, and walk across the room to sit in his chair. I'd hold my breath to listen for his, but as I heard it, his breath would stop too, and then he'd sigh and start pacing again. I knew that my attention to his presence irritated him, but I simply _couldn't help_ listening for him. It was such an odd and exhilarating feeling, to have a _person_ in my home. I tried to give him privacy, physically at least. I played music on the gramophone to cover the sounds of his movements, but then caught myself straining to hear them. I stayed in my study so that he could explore the rest of the house freely, and kept my door open, in case he sought my company. I tried to give him mental privacy as well, reading often to occupy my mind… but thoughts of his presence would enter my mind, and he'd always immediately react to them. He was particularly annoyed if I ever thought a possessive pronoun…_my_ companion, _my_ creation, _my_ dear boy, _my_ son… these thoughts, no matter how fleeting, enraged him. He would stomp across his floor and slam the door, opening it first, if necessary. Once the '_my'_ hadn't even fully formed in my mind and I heard him hiss from the kitchen where he laundered his shirt. I tried to avoid these thoughts, but it was impossible. I could only apologize. _Sorry _became my most frequent mental word.

And I couldn't blame him for his reactions, any more than I could blame myself for my thoughts. Of course my possessive thoughts were inappropriate. He was not my son, not yet (_hiss_). I had changed him, but that did not make him my creation (_hiss_). He was his own, as I was my own. But we _were_ connected in some way… and to that thought he didn't react.

Though I kept my distance out of respect, to give him time to adjust, he would come to me sometimes.

"Carlisle, there's no bed in my room."

"Do you feel tired?"

"Exhausted."

"Could you sleep?"

"Oh, we don't sleep," he said, taking the information from my mind. He turned from the door of my study and walked into the parlor, carefully turning over the record on the gramophone, and then laying on the sofa, closing his eyes and listening.

A few hours later I heard him whisper, "Carlisle?"

"Hmmm?"

"I need to hunt."

And so it continued during his first days. His hunting got better, his bathing became less frequent, and he insisted on doing both our laundry, to make up for the fact that he'd broken my records. I left him for brief periods every day, to take care of errands, and give him some real privacy. The first time I bought new music, replacing the records he'd broken and buying dozens of new albums in various musical styles.

When I returned home, Edward was up in his room. I placed one of the Chopin albums that he had claimed as a favorite on the gramophone, and sat on the sofa as I sorted the other records into piles according to genre.

"What's all that?" he asked from the doorway. I looked up as I organized my purchases.

"Well, now that we are playing so much music, I was thinking my selection seemed a bit sparse. So I picked up a few new things: Bartok, more Bach, Debussy. But I thought I'd pick up some other genres: Irving Berlin, Al Jolson, Dixieland Jazz Band…" I continued, reading the labels. "Henry Creamer… I've never even heard of him. I thought we might like some variety," I said, smiling up at him. Edward sat with me and helped sort the records, reading over labels.

"Do you like jazz?" Edward asked.

"Hmmm? Oh, some, I suppose. I haven't listened to much of it, I admit, but one of the doctors in my last hospital favored ragtime, and he'd play it in his office sometimes… I became rather fond of it," I said as I continued to sort. Edward shook his head, chuckling.

"Well, I think you'll like this one, then," he said, changing the record.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Frankie and Johnny." We listened to it for a while, and he asked, "What do you think?"

"Actually, I think Dr. Horrigan had this one," I said smiling. He grinned at me and bobbed his head in time to the music. We listened to the albums for hours, enjoying the variety and tentatively enjoying each other's company. At one point, Edward put on an album neither of us was familiar with. We sat and listened to a series of falsetto love ballads. I tried to keep an open mind, but they were dreadful.

"Yes, they are," Edward laughed. "Allow me to change the record; I should really practice controlling my strength… oops." He'd purposely crushed the record, and we laughed as it splintered into dozens of pieces. I cleaned the pieces up as he put on a Debussy… without causing any damage… and then we stacked the records in the bookshelf. When we were finished we each went back to reading, but for the first time, he stayed in the parlor with me.

The next day I brought home two large backpacks, and some clothes that would fit him better than the items in my wardrobe… he was thinner than I was, though not by much… and he needed his own things. I brought home newspapers when I went out, but it was painful to read about the ongoing epidemic, knowing I was powerless to help fight it.

I sat in my study later that afternoon when I looked up to see Edward standing in the doorway.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"The Odyssey."

"In Greek?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"It sounds nice… it's peaceful…I can hear the sounds you're thinking, but I can't understand it… it's… really soothing."

"I'll have to read something in Portuguese later…or maybe Welsh…they're both melodic languages…much more so than Greek."

"How many languages do you speak?"

"I only speak eight or so, but I can read… fourteen or fifteen, it depends on how you count some of the dialects of the ancient languages." He looked as though he were about to ask more questions but the needle on the gramophone broke, and he moved to the parlor to replace it.

After the evening hunting trip, during which he'd not only felled two does without getting blood on himself, but he had actually avoided getting _dirt_ on himself as well, I broached the subject of approaching a neighborhood.

"Hold your breath now, and take my hand. I'll lead you near the edge of town, where the scent of humans is noticeable, and then arc back to the house. After that we can decide if it's worth risking a trip to your parents' house." He contemplated for a moment, and then took a deep breath and held it, and motioned for me to lead.

_I'd rather have physical contact, in case something goes wrong and I need to restrain you._

He rolled his eyes, but then held out his hand for mine and we started to run. I led him to the edge of the forest, and then beyond, within sight of the first line of houses. I slowed our pace, and studied his face.

_Everything all right?_ He nodded. We continued closer to the homes, which were sparsely spaced along the street, and then headed back into the forest and to the house. He didn't exhale until the front door closed behind us.

"That was easy," he said. "Let's go now."

"I thought we'd wait until tomorrow night."

"Why? I just fed, it's two in the morning, and we have the packs ready… why wait?"

I gauged his expression, trying to see if he was hiding any motivations from me. He rolled his eyes at me.

"Carlisle, if we do it tonight, then we're done. But if we have to abort tonight, because there's an issue we haven't thought of, we'll have another shot tomorrow night, right? This makes sense."

"You're right, of course. Okay, no rest for the wicked." We retrieved the empty packs from the kitchen.

"You're not seriously considering tethering me to you, are you?" he asked, commenting on an errant thought.

"No, not really," I laughed. "It's tempting! I feel like we need more contingencies worked out, but there's nothing I could use to tether you to me that you couldn't break or use against me as a weapon, so I think it would be counterproductive."

"Well, there's always the usual Plan B. Just send me some really horrific image and I fall to my knees, right?"

I studied his face and was surprised to find no trace of sarcasm. He was perfectly serious.

"I actually don't know if that will work again, now that you're prepared for it. And I don't think I should use visions of your mother again… I did that out of complete desperation."

"And you would feel less desperate if I were set loose in the middle of a neighborhood?"

"Well, no…"

"Exactly. Neither one of us wants me to attack a human. I'll do my best not to breathe, but if I do, and I somehow get away from you, you should absolutely try to stop me with any means possible, including… mental bombardment, for lack of a better word. I expect you to do that, Carlisle, do you understand? From what you've said, you have enough material just from your years with the Volturi to keep me on my knees for a week."

"Perhaps. Those decades do provide a wealth of horror. All right, if you insist, that will be Plan B… let's hope we don't have to use it. As long as you hold your breath, and we don't see any humans, you should be able to control your instincts."

"Do you know how to get to my house?" he asked suddenly.

It was my turn to roll my eyes, in what I hoped was an apt imitation of him. "Let's go," I said, holding out my hand. He took deep breath, took my hand and we left the house again. We ran southeast this time, until the trees gave way to a small lane that headed south into Evanston. We paused at the edge of the trees and I studied his face.

_Are you feeling all right? May we continue? _He nodded. I adjusted my grip on his hand and drew him closer, locking our elbows together. We were now shoulder to shoulder, and I'd know the instant his direction veered from mine. We began moving down the street, slowly and steadily. The houses were sparse at first, but grew tighter as we entered a posh neighborhood of three story brownstones.

_Don't breathe, Edward. You're doing really well. We just have a few more blocks._ I continued these silent encouragements as we moved deliberately though the street, and Edward matched me step for step until suddenly — he didn't. He stiffened and froze and I turned quickly to look into his face, shocked to see his eyes wide and sightless. I stepped in front of him and placed my free hand on the nape of his neck trying to direct his eyes to mine.

_Edward! Edward! What's wrong? Look at me Edward! Now! Look at me now!_

Finally his eyes found mine, and though it seemed impossible they widened further. His eyes were pleading, and he reached up with his free hand and grasped my arm, hanging on as though he were drowning.

_What is it, Edward? Did you take a breath? Can you smell something? _He shook his head violently. I looked around us, but saw no signs of life, human or otherwise. _Did you see something?_ He shook his head again, whimpering, but clinging to my eyes. _I don't understand, Edward. Can you move with me? _His features grew pained and his eyes unfocused again, but I could see they were not darker. Whatever the problem was, he wasn't suffering bloodlust. _Edward!_ I shouted in my mind again; his eyes found mine, and then he closed them, collecting himself.

With great deliberation he opened them again, stared intently into my eyes, and whispered, "Carlisle, there are voices _EVERYWHERE_." And he snapped his mouth tight.

_What? There are no voices…_ I looked around at the gloomy street and scattered gas lamps; no one was even out, much less talking. I glanced at the dozens of darkened houses, their inhabitants asleep and likely… my gaze snapped back to his.

_You can hear their dreams? All of them at once? _He nodded, whimpering again.

"Oh my dear boy," I whispered, before I could think better of it. I caught myself and cautiously looked back at his face to see if he were angry… it was the type of sentiment that usually infuriated him. But he was still a drowning man… drowning in a sea of subconscious and likely surreal thoughts, a cacophony of images, his eyes clinging to my face as his hand clung to my arm, as though I alone could keep him afloat.

_What can I do? What can I do? _My eyes wandered the street helplessly, and then I had a thought. I looked back into his eyes. _Edward? I am the closest. Am I also the loudest?_ He nodded. Okay, maybe I could drown out the other thoughts with my own… something compelling, but not so distracting that we couldn't communicate. I settled on the memory of a concert. _Edward, watch this…_

I started the memory with the beginning of the Concerto in A, and just let it play. I let the music and the sight of the maestro at his piano fill my mind. I felt Edward viscerally relax next to me.

_Better?_ He nodded. _Shall we go back home, or do you want to carry on to your parents' house? _He glared at me. Right, yes or no questions. _Do you want to go home?_ He shook his head. It was a risk, but he'd handled the panic well, and we were so close at this point, it seemed a pity to make his suffering part of a wasted effort. _All right, let's carry on then. _

I released his neck and went to his side again, his arm still linked with mine. His steps were staggering, but with my help, he was able to move forward. We finally reached his childhood home, and he led me through a gate and into the back yard. He went to a set of French doors and tried them. They were locked, of course, and I pointed at one of the upstairs windows. _It might not be locked._

He shook his head, and moved over to an ornate fountain, reached behind a stone cherub, and produced a key. Smiling slightly through pursed lips, he unlocked the French door, let us both in, and then closed it behind us.

_Don't breathe yet; let me taste the air for a minute._ He nodded, and I sampled the stale air. There was almost no scent of humans; all that lingered was a faint sickly smell. No one had been in the house for weeks.

"Okay, it smells safe to me. Start with a shallow breath." He grasped my arm more tightly and looked into my eyes intently as he sucked in a small sample of air; he exhaled and took in a deeper one. Finally he relaxed and I let go of him.

"Well, that was interesting," he said. He was gasping for air, as though he were a human that had held his breath too long. I was suddenly amazed and grateful that he'd managed to hold his breath through his panic. His control was startling. He shed his pack and sat on the parlor sofa, leaned his elbows onto his knees and put his face in his hands, taking deep breaths to steady himself.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, the voices are fainter now that I have my own private concert," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Humans have insane dreams…_they_ probably won't even recall them when they awaken, but I'll remember them all juxtaposed into some sort of crazy mental mosaic." Pain and frustration colored his voice. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images. "I'm really glad you thought of something to drown it out; I was starting to lose myself."

"That's what it looked like. I'm glad it helped." I sat next to him, patiently waiting until he was ready to continue our business in the house. He made no move to get up, continuing to breathe deeply trying to calm down. After several minutes, he ran his hands through his hair a final time and leaned back into the sofa, his muscles finally unclenched and his breathing almost normal. He slowly began taking in his surroundings.

"Carlisle, why is everyone in your concert dressed so strangely? Was it a costume ball?"

"No," I chuckled. "It was 1782, Vienna."

His gawked at me. "Wait, that's not… that's not _actually_ Mozart playing, is it?"

I smiled at his incredulity. "Yes, it was the debut of that piece, I believe. When Mozart returned from France, his popularity was waning, at least until he started writing his operas a few years later… It was actually quite easy to get tickets.

He continued to stare at me, eyes searching my face. "Carlisle, how _old_ are you?"

I laughed quietly again. "Rather old," I admitted. "I'll tell you all about my life, if you're interested, but it's a story best told in my study, with my paintings and books. Right now we need to find your father's study…"

"Of course," he said, refocusing himself on our purpose there. He took a deep breath and braced his hands on his knees to stand, as though it took great effort. He looked around the room wistfully. Sighing, he said, "Follow me."

* * *

_AN: I hope you are enjoying Prelude in C. I really appreciate every comment and review I get, and I respond to every one (unless you've blocked your PMs or commented anonymously). I'd love to hear your thoughts. Thanks to my beta, Coleen561._


	6. Chapter 6

EPOV

For the first time since my heart stopped beating, I felt like a ghost.

I was home, in the house I'd spent my entire life. The one place I'd always felt comfortable, confident, and loved. The one place I knew absolutely. I'd been looking forward to being here ever since Carlisle first mentioned the need to come to the house. I longed to see my home again, though I felt some trepidation at the idea of being so near humans, and oddly, felt some strange worry about the trip. But still, I _wanted_ to come. I wanted to regain that feeling of ease I'd known in this home, before my life, as it were, had been turned on its edge and left me reeling. I wanted to feel comfortable, confident, and loved again. I wanted the sands to stop shifting beneath my feet. I wanted to be surrounded by the absolutely familiar, to be practically _bored_ by the familiarity of having everything in its place. Maybe here I could have just one clear thought in my head at a time. Happiness was a distant dream, but if I could achieve calm comfort, it would be enough. If I could be somewhere I knew, close my eyes, and feel comfortable for just a few minutes, perhaps I could find the strength to face this mystifying new existence.

Now I was here, in this house that _ought_ to be the most familiar place in the world, having traveled through a virtual madness to get here. And now I finally understood that nagging sense of apprehension I'd had all along. It was all wrong. Everything was all wrong. And I no longer belonged here.

I walked down the hall from the parlor, passing picture after picture of my old life, and realized I barely remembered _being_ that boy in the photos. His reality and mine were worlds apart. He didn't stalk with deadly precision. He'd never had blood-tinged passion push him to the edge of reason. He'd never been pushed _past_ that edge by the onslaught of thoughts that weren't his own. His greatest worry had been how to convince his mother to let him go to war, or how to keep his father from making a lawyer out of him. His life had been _so simple_. The consequences of his actions weren't so lethal. I didn't even _look_ like that boy. Even forgetting the red eyes for a moment — and really, who _could _forget them — but even ignoring that, all my features were slightly off; my jaw was just a little more chiseled, cheek bones just a bit higher, muscles just a bit more visible. I wasn't him. I remembered him, for the most part, but I wasn't him.

I thought that returning to my parents' home, _my home_, would feel like… well, like coming home. But it didn't. It was familiar; I knew where I was, but the emotional response was all wrong.

The house _felt_ wrong… like someplace I'd read about or seen pictures of rather than a home I'd lived in for seventeen years. It _smelled_ wrong: musty and dirty, and with no signs of life. My mother's perfume didn't linger lightly in her wake; no scents emanated from the kitchen. This hallway, lined with wood panels reaching to within two feet of the ceiling, should smell of lemon oil and wax, not dust and medicine and illness. But worse, it _looked_ wrong. I could see too much detail, even in the darkness; I could see minutiae that didn't fit with my memories of the place. Everything was _where_ I remembered it, but it wasn't quite _how_ I remembered it. It all looked just a bit off, just like me, but it hadn't been 'improved' through the transformation, it had been scarred. It was as though these were not my possessions, but close facsimiles that didn't quite have the same beauty or emotional appeal. I saw every flaw, every scratch and dent in the wood panels along the hall, every imperfection in the glass covering the pictures; and since I'd never seen them before, they made the hall feel strange. Where I sought the familiar, I was faced with foreign. The realization was almost physically painful.

I turned and went through a door, Carlisle right behind me, oblivious to my disorientation. "Ah, so here it is: your father's study. Where's the safe located?"

I pointed to the corner, actually speechless for the moment. We didn't bother turning on lights; we could see fine without them, and we didn't want to alert any neighbors to our presence. Carlisle took his pack off, knelt beside the safe, and started turning the dial, listening carefully for each soft _click_. I could hear them from across the room, and knew he'd have no trouble opening it. His mind was… well it was an amazing place. He was simultaneously cracking the safe; remembering a Mozart concert for my benefit; making a mental list for himself of all the documents he needed to find and the legal requirements for satisfying the inheritance regulations; worrying about me and my reaction to being in my home; worrying that I still hated him and resented my new life; and monitoring the smells in the house so he could tackle me if anything were to set off my newborn instincts. Carlisle's mind was well organized, almost fastidiously tidy, each thought being processed in its own part of his mind, much like his study. And like his study, it was full of both reference and poetry… science and art.

_My_ mind was following everything happening in his, as well as noticing details throughout the house, attempting to ignore the dreams of nine separate humans, and musing over how very spacious my mind _still_ felt despite all that. No wonder I didn't resemble that boy in the photos — that simple boy with his simple life and his mind that held one thought at a time. Even now, with all the thoughts in my mind, it felt as though a vacuum drew more thoughts to it. But while Carlisle's mind was organized, mine felt littered and vacant and huge… like a warehouse filled with disorganized clutter, with a ceiling so high it echoed despite the flotsam and jetsam underfoot. I could so easily get lost in my own mind — in both its clutter and its empty spaces — it was frightening. Sometimes it took an incredible amount of concentration just to know where I was in my mind, to stay in one place, with one thought, long enough to process it and move on, rather than spin through the same material over and over like a gramophone record.

Carlisle didn't realize how much I relied on the stability of his mind while I tried to make sense of the contents of my own. There were times I literally clung to his thoughts, as though they were a rock in the tumultuous sea of my own mind. It was nice to have an anchor, but sometimes by clinging to that stationary refuge, I was battered by the waves of my own mind. Most of the time it helped, though. Carlisle's steady, calm, often fascinating, occasionally irritating thoughts were my mooring. When he left the house to give me privacy, it was a relief to have the din decreased by half, but it left me feeling at sea.

I turned to examine the bookcases in my father's study, setting down the pack that I'd carried into the room. I wasn't the only ghost in the house. As I scanned the contents of the foreign/familiar room, my mind was flooded with partial memories, glimpses and flickers of_ them…_and us, as we'd been.I heard things I knew weren't there: the swish of my mother's skirts and the click of her heels as she moved purposely down the hall; my father shuffling papers at his desk or at his piano. I heard things that _were_ there too: Carlisle opening the door of the safe, the rustling of papers as he reviewed its contents, and his thoughts as he surveyed the titles.

_Let's see. Last Will and Testament, insurance policy, several bonds, some letters from an attorney, oh good, this is about the estate…birth certificates, are these stock notes? I don't know this company. Ah, here's the house deed. So there's no mortgage, that's convenient… _His mental voice was light, feathery, the voice I heard when he was not directing his thoughts at me, but I was merely overhearing them. It still had a harmonious, cello-like quality, but it fluttered. The thoughts were incompletely formed, running together, interspersed with images and feelings. When he was actually directing a thought to me, the voice sounded deeper, stronger, more resonant.

My father's bookshelves housed mostly legal texts and case studies, which I had no interest in, but there were also what he had deemed his 'philosophy' books: Montaigne's Essays, More's Utopia, Locke's Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Melville's Moby Dick, Pierce's Fixation of Belief, the complete works of Thomas Paine, and four books of essays and short stories by Mark Twain. I placed the lot in my pack, and rearranged books from other shelves to make it the shelf seem full, as Carlisle and told me to do. I was disturbing the dust in a way that looked rather glaring to me, but it was unlikely to be noticed by humans as the estate was cataloged later in the week. On the next shelf were two photos taken three years earlier, when my parents had gone to the Panama-Pacific International Exposition in San Francisco: my mother standing in front of the Tower of Jewels, and both of them in front of the Palace of Fine Arts. I smiled, remembering my mother's description of the beautiful city that had risen from the ashes like a mythic phoenix after the Great Quake. It had been her first and only visit to the Pacific Ocean… I'd stayed with neighbors, and had yet to see it… well, there'd be plenty of time for that now. I put the pictures in my pack. I continued to walk along the wall of bookshelves, not seeing much more of specific interest, but feeling my father's presence everywhere. I could almost smell his cologne, hear that little noise he made in his throat when concentrated on his reading, and the shuffling of his papers…

When I reached the door again I turned, half expecting to find him at his desk, but seeing Carlisle sitting there instead. A hiss escaped my lips before I could think. Carlisle froze and his eyes darted around the room.

_Edward. What's alarmed him? I don't smell or hear anything… He's glaring at me. What have I done now? Is he reacting to the Will I was reading? But everything seemed fine… he looks furious…_

I shook my head, trying to control my flash of temper. "Just, don't sit there… please," I managed to get out.

_Don't sit… oh, at his father's desk… and me constantly thinking of him as my son… of course he's upset. How could I be so insensitive?_

He stood and walked to the other side of the desk, where a 'guest' chair sat empty.

"Will this be okay?" he asked tentatively.

"Of course. I'm sorry, Carlisle. It's just…"

"You don't have to explain, Edward. Are you finding everything?" he asked gently.

I sighed and looked around the room. "I think I'm done in here. I'm going upstairs to the bedrooms. I'm going to take both packs, in case I need the space. Just call if you need anything."

He nodded. "These will keep me busy for a while longer. Remember to cover your tracks as much as possible. Oh, and take some more clothes…"

I nodded, taking both the packs, and made my way upstairs. I went to my room first, packing some clothes, and then pulling my collection of T206 Piedmont baseball cards out of my top drawer. I looked through them briefly, and then put them back in the envelope and dropped them into the pack. I looked around my room to see what else I might want to bring. I packed my baseball, mitt and cap, and then moved to my desk where I found my atlas and several of my favorite novels. I looked at the stack of papers and pamphlets on the war and Army recruitment, but left them there. I looked on the shelf at the ribbons I'd received for track and field events. I took my favorite: the blue ribbon for the 500-yard dash I'd earned last year. I laughed as I thought about that race… my parents were so excited I could actually hear my mother calling out encouragements as I ran. I'd had no idea she could jump up and down in those shoes she'd been wearing. My father didn't even chastise her for unseemly behavior, but just strode over to me when the coach released me and shook my hand with one of the broadest smiles I'd ever seen on him. And my best friend, Andrew had won in the 1-mile race…it had been a good day. I left the other ribbons, and took the packs into my parents' room.

The bed was still unmade. We'd left that morning in such a rush, my father's fever suddenly so high, that Mother had left everything as it was, and called the maid to tell her not to report that day. And then the house had been put under quarantine… so the bed was just as it had been that fateful morning. I left the packs by the door and walked over to the bed. I could still see the imprints their heads had made in their down pillows. I caressed the shallow indention in my father's pillow suddenly overcome with emotion. His last coherent thoughts had been made on this pillow, before he'd fallen asleep the night before. By morning he'd been delirious and he never recovered. Mother and I had experienced the hospital, but he was never lucid there. It's probably just as well; he'd have hated being there, hated feeling so helpless, hated knowing he was slowly slipping away. I was glad he'd been spared that, even if Mother hadn't… even if I hadn't. He'd been a proud man; it would have been harder on him. I sighed and looked at my mother's pillow, then reached for it and brought it to my face and inhaled. It was still there; beneath the scent of the cotton and feathers, I could still smell her.

With new purpose, I went to my father's wardrobe. There on a hook on the left side was the wool scarf he wore nearly every day. I raised it to my face. Yes, it was there… his scent. I packed the scarf and went to my mother's wardrobe. This was harder…there was nothing she wore every day… not that I'd feel comfortable keeping, at least. I wasn't so desperate for her scent that I'd take a satin undergarment. I looked in the drawers and found her kid gloves. They were steeped with her scent and her perfume, and they were small… perfect.

I moved next to my father's dresser. Going through his top drawer, I took his silver monogrammed cufflinks, and the gold pocket watch he'd worn almost my entire life. I left the new wrist-watch. He didn't like it anyway. Next I moved to mother's jewelry case… a whole piece of furniture dedicated to the baubles my father had bought her. There were only a few that I was particularly interested in.

"Edward?" Carlisle's voice was soft, but the house was so quiet, I jumped as his voice reached me from downstairs.

"Yes?"

"The insurance policy lists several items individually."

"And the implication of that is…"

"It would be best if we didn't take them," Carlisle finished. "You still _can_, of course, if it's very important, but it would be better if we left them until the inheritance proceedings are concluded. It will raise concerns if these items are missing."

"What are they?"

"Mostly jewelry."

"It just so happens I'm at my mother's treasure trove as we speak," I said softly, the hush of the house affecting both our moods.

"There are five items. A sapphire choker…"

"It's here," I said, after opening the top drawer and sifting through the velvet pouches.

"A set of diamond earrings."

"Check," I said, setting them to the side.

"A diamond and ruby pendant."

"I don't see that yet," I said, sifting through the velvet, setting aside the pieces I intended to keep. "Oh wait, here it is. Next?"

"A single diamond pendant cut in the shape of a heart."

"I'm taking that one." I heard Carlisle sigh downstairs.

"It's very valuable, but I assure you, you do not need to worry about money, and the inheritance will go more smoothly if these items are available to be…"

"He gave it to her the day I was born. It represents me; their love, made corporeal in me." I felt Carlisle's mind go completely blank for a fraction of a second; even Mozart froze, his hands raised unnaturally over the ivory keys.

"Yes, we'll take it with us… I'll sort something out." Mozart was playing again, and I smiled at Carlisle's reaction as I placed the velvet pouch in my pack. "The last piece is a diamond necklace."

"That's here too. The ruby choker isn't listed?"

"No, that's all the jewelry listed. Beyond that it's the piano, and four paintings."

"I'll risk those. I'm going to take this ruby choker…she wore it almost every Christmas."

"Anything not listed won't cause a complication…just try not to make it look like we looted the place."

"I'll do my best," I chuckled.

"And take your time, I still have four documents to review."

"Thanks, Carlisle," I said as I got back to work. In the end I took seven pieces of jewelry, including the heart-shaped diamond. They were all things she'd worn to important events that I could remember. I also went to her bedside table and took the last book she'd been reading, and the picture of the two of them on their wedding day, and my baby picture. I looked in the shelves across from the bed where the family Bible and photo albums were always kept, but they were missing. I rummaged through the entire bookcase twice, went to each of their bedside tables, opened every drawer, my actions becoming more frantic; they simply weren't there.

"Edward? Are you okay?" Carlisle asked as I released a frustrated growl.

"Something's missing."

"Would you like my help?" The concern in his mind overwhelmed his other thoughts. He was trying to give me space to do this on my own, but was worried that if I started getting angry or frustrated, my newborn instincts would set me spiraling out of control. I tried to calm myself, taking deep breaths and clinging again to his thoughts.

"I'm looking for the family Bible and two brown leather photo albums." I heard him climb the stairs. "They belong in here, but I can't find them. Everything looks a bit wrong; they might be right in front of me and I'm not recognizing them." He was standing in the doorway, his concerned eyes scanning my face.

"The last time you were in this house, you had human senses and perceptions. I'm sure it's a bit disorienting," he said softly. I nodded. "Your father was sick in this room for several days before you all went to the hospital, was he not?" I nodded again. "Perhaps she took those items to another part of the house, so she could look at them without disturbing his rest."

I thought for a moment. "The sunroom," I whispered. Carlisle raised an eyebrow. "The sitting area off the dining room is west-facing, and Mother loved to read in there. I bet you're right. I bet she took them down there so she wouldn't disturb him. Sitting in the corner of that room, with the sun streaming in, always cheered her, no matter how difficult her situation… she spent a lot of time down there her last days…"

"Do you want me to help you look?" he asked.

"No, I'm okay now. Thank you." He turned to leave. "Carlisle?"

He stopped and turned. "Hmmm?"

"Carlisle, how did you do this alone as a newborn? I can barely keep myself together with all you do to help. How did you control your thoughts and emotions?" And then I saw it; I closed my eyes as it washed over me. Thirst. Darkness. Hiding. Flashes of scenery laced with fear, anger, loathing. The ground approaching swiftly and a feeling of rushing wind in my… his… our hair. He'd flung himself from a cliff. The thunderous sea, littered with jagged rocks and angry spray, all approaching swiftly. Pain. The darkness of the sea floor, saltwater burning our lungs. More thirst. The scent of a dark musty cave, all coherent thought gone. Madness contained in a cave on the moors, and then the scent of deer, and the flash of instinct. I opened my eyes and saw the strain on his face.

"It was… difficult."

Carlisle Cullen was a _master_ of understatement. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch, despite the horror I'd just relived.

"I can see that. It's a veritable miracle that you managed to avoid hunting humans."

"Yes!" he exclaimed quietly. "Even in my darkest moments, God did not completely abandon me." Understatement he had mastered. Optimism… well, he attempted it, but I saw his inner mind, and knew he struggled with it more than he'd care to admit. I thought to myself that I'd rather have Carlisle than the vision of God's support he'd just shown me, but I didn't say it aloud. He'd find it shocking, and would not take it as a compliment.

I touched my father's pillows one last time, thinking of the differences between Carlisle and Edward Sr. Would the differences seem so pronounced if I had been able to read my father's thoughts as I read Carlisle's? It was hard to imagine my father being so… so _earnest_, but perhaps I just didn't know him that well, outside our roles as father and son. I sighed, and then looked up as I read the concern in Carlisle's mind again. "I'm okay, just… saying goodbye, I guess."

"I'll leave you to it, then. Shall I take this pack? It looks nearly full, and I can put some of the documents we'll take in it."

"Sure, what are we taking?"

"Your birth certificate, and some notes I'm making on the other documents."

"You're writing things down?"

"Not to help me remember," he said smiling. "That's not a problem. It's for the facade. When I meet with the lawyer on your behalf, because you're still too ill to meet with him yourself, it will be better if I'm working off notes that I wrote while 'speaking with your father' before his death, on his stationery. Also, with your consent, I intend to forge a memorandum from your father asking me to agree to be your temporary guardian until your eighteenth birthday, in the event that he and your mother both succumb to the epidemic. I'll date it the day before you all left for the hospital, and include his, my and your signatures."

"You can forge his handwriting?"

"There are several examples downstairs, I think I can manage. I'll let you be the judge when you come down to sign it."

"And you'll take that too, for the meeting with the lawyer?"

"No, I thought I'd leave it in the safe with the Will for him to find. I can include my post office box number; perhaps he'll contact us," Carlisle said with a slightly mischievous smile.

I smirked. "I see. Well, sure, take that pack… I'll be down in a few minutes." He left and I heard him re-enter my father's study. I looked one more time around the room, touching the warm wood of the bed, and the still clock on my father's bedside table. All the clocks in the house had run down. They all showed different times, but they were all still. They were dead, just like my parents — just like my family. I remained, but my family was dead and gone. I sighed and wondered if the ache in my chest would ever quite go away. I bid my parents' sanctuary farewell, and returned downstairs with the second pack. As I passed the doorway to the study, Carlisle called me in to show me the letter he'd drafted. I looked it over, impressed that he'd done such a respectable job with my father's handwriting in such a short amount of time.

"You see, here it mentions your cousins in Denver, but specifically indicates that family is already struggling. And because you are so close to the age of inheritance, your parents feel it's best that you stay in the area so you may claim your home as soon as possible, and have the support of your life-long friends in the event of your parents' death. That should be sufficient to convince the estate executor, coupled with our knowledge of the documents in the safe. So just sign here, and I'll do the same, and then I'll sign for your father, once I get it right. I've been practicing on this sheet, but something's off.

I looked at the other sheet. "You need to add a downward flourish at the bottom of the 'E'. See, look at this one…" I held up one of my father's letters.

"Oh, I see. Yes, that's the problem. How does this look?" he said, trying again.

"Better. That should be convincing. You know, Carlisle, if you weren't so honorable, you could become a very wealthy man with these skills."

_I am a very wealthy man._ His thoughts turned immediately to the documents again as he signed my father's name to the memorandum at last, and placed it with the Will. I was amused to realize that he might have just hidden the meaning of his thoughts from me. How extraordinary.

"I have three more documents to review," he said, dismissing me to finish my work. He was embarrassed. And then I saw the meaning he'd tried to hide. He had wealth; a long life of working, saving and investing had allowed for that. But he also meant me. He considered himself blessed and wealthy, because he had me. And he assumed I'd be angered by the thought.

"I'll head to the dining room, then," I said, picking up the pack, and trying to leave him to his thoughts, focusing instead on the Mozart again.

In the corner of the dining room was a curio cabinet that housed my mother's music box collection. The oldest had been my favorite, and I distinctly remembered her letting me play with it on the carpet while she entertained friends when I was four or five years old. The box itself was wood inlay in an intricate scroll design, and when opened, glass covered the working parts of the music player, so that all the wheels and gears could be seen. As a child I'd thought it was magic, but as I grew I studied that little machine through the glass until I'd understood the purpose of each gear and cog. It played Mozart's Waltz in B flat, which was the first song my mother taught me to dance to. I tried to remember how it felt. We were laughing in the parlor, and she kept counting out loud for me as I tried to lead, despite the fact that she had a much better grasp of what we were doing than I did.

"Carlisle?"

"Yes, Edward."

"Could you please stop remembering the Mozart concert? I'm trying to think of something, and it's interfering."

"Of course… will you be all right?"

"Yes, the dreams are much easier to ignore now. I'll probably need something to distract me during the trip back, but I'm fine for now."

The concert stopped, and I could hear the Waltz in B Flat clearly. I closed my eyes, remembering that first dance with my mother, how her eyes sparkled, how my father stood in the doorway chuckling, telling me I'd never get a second dance if I kept stepping on my partner's toes. It was a good memory, and I clung to it. After another moment of savoring it, I wrapped the box in a cloth from the sideboard and placed it in my pack. There were other beautiful boxes, one played Chopin's Waltz in C Sharp minor, one of my favorite melodies… but while Mozart actually sounded sweet coming from a wind-up box, Chopin could not be contained in such a lifeless, unvarying instrument. I took one other, a porcelain figurine of a woman at a pianoforte, which played Beethoven's Für Elise. It had been Mother's favorite. I wrapped it carefully in several pieces of cloth I found in the sideboard, and held onto it so I could put it in the top of the pack, just before we left.

I went into the sunroom and found the Bible and photo albums by her favorite wing-backed chair, as well as a book of poetry I didn't recognize. She must have been reading this too, in her final days. I packed it all up, and took the pack and music box to the parlor. I set the pack down by the sofa, and stood facing the piano. My father's piano. I was allowed to play it, but it was definitely his. How many times had I listened to him play for my mother? Whenever she'd call him a stodgy old lawyer, decrying the way his work had overtaken his life, he would sit and play for her, and leave her dancing or crying or laughing, and they'd shortly retire upstairs. Perhaps he had been as earnest as Carlisle; it was just rarely directed toward me.

I sat at the instrument, lightly fingering the ivory keys… I didn't dare play any music; the neighbors would think the house was haunted. Besides, it seemed only right that the last music to be brought forth from this lovely instrument be his. This piano should be silent now, like the clocks. But that didn't stop me from caressing the keys, stroking the places that I knew his fingers had been. I often hadn't understood my father — he wasn't particularly demonstrative or communicative — but I understood him when he sat at this bench. I couldn't match his skill, but I could appreciate it. All the feeling he held in during his daily life poured out through his fingers when he sat here. Other than his wife, I couldn't be sure what he was passionate about in his life; he never shared that with me. But that he _was_ passionate I knew, because of his behavior when he sat here. I wished he'd shared it with me. I wished he'd talked to me with his voice rather than his hands. He would have been less of a mystery. Perhaps he'd have been easier to let go if I'd understood him better. I was sure of my mother's affection and approval, and of my father's love, but as for approval, I couldn't be sure. What he would think if he saw me now, in this new life? Would he consider me damned, or blessed with a second chance, as my mother believed? I just didn't know. But I was fairly sure I knew how he'd react if he'd seen my behavior toward Carlisle over the last week or so.

Carlisle. So earnest. So kind. Trying so hard to do what was right and just with the unjust hand fate had dealt him. So _easy_ to punish. I sighed as I thought back on my behavior. I'd been a brat. Not wholly without cause, mind you. What could be expected of me, with so much to assimilate into my new existence? But I'd been treating him poorly; I'd taken every frustration, every pain, every heartache out on him, and he'd taken it all and been grateful… _grateful_… just to have me there. If I'd treated my father that way, he would have boxed my ears, and then — with absolutely no hint of irony — he would have told me to act like a man. If Carlisle had treated _his_ father that way… well we'd never discussed it, but I'd seen enough snippets of memory to know that he'd have carried the bruises for weeks. And Carlisle just showed me infinite patience. And I punished him for that too. My father would be ashamed.

I sighed as I continued to stroke the piano keys. My family was dead. They would have been dead whether Carlisle had interceded with me or not; I couldn't punish him for the fact that I didn't have them any more. Perhaps he had damned me by his actions; perhaps he hadn't. Regardless, he was in the same state I was, and he was a far better man. He didn't _act_ damned. I could at least try not to act damned either. He wasn't family, but he was good, and he was a mentor. I could try to stop being such a brat. Perhaps if my father were looking down on me, he would be proud of that small achievement.

I felt Carlisle's presence at the doorway, and heard his shock at seeing me at the piano. _Oh, he looks so lost, so alone. Should I go to him? Would he find it comforting? No, he's made it clear that he wants to do this on his own as much as possible. I should go back to the study until he tells me he's ready to leave. Yes, I'll just back away…_

"Don't go," I requested shakily. I slid to my left, silently inviting him to sit with me. I felt the joy swell in his mind, and then heard his tentative steps as he closed the distance between us. He lowered his pack to the floor, and sat beside me on the piano bench. We were silent for a few moments, and I watched through his mind as he studied my hand gliding across the keys.

"Do you play?" he finally asked.

I nodded. "Not as well as he did. I never had the patience to run scales enough to build up the speed necessary for my favorite music."

"I doubt speed or precision would be a problem now."

"True," I said laughing softly. "Though I probably shouldn't test that now… the neighbors might think a phantom haunts the house."

"I agree," he said with a soft smile. "Did he play Chopin? Is that why you like it so much?"

I nodded. "Beautifully. He played Chopin beautifully, with so much expression… most people can't do it justice. He should have played for a symphony, but he chose the career with the more stable paycheck so he could support his family."

"That's admirable."

"Do you think so? I think it made him hard. He didn't have a passion for the law, despite all those books," I nodded toward the study.

"He must have had a passion for his family, to want to provide for them so well. I've just gone though all his most important papers, and he paid exacting attention to detail to make sure that you and your mother would be independent if anything happened to him. He was quite thorough."

I nodded again, considering that. "I just wish he hadn't sacrificed quite so much of himself to achieve it," I whispered. Carlisle's mind filled with admiration; my concern for my father touched him. He also felt envy, comparing the sentiment to his own relationship with his father, and his relationship with me… quickly circumventing the latter thought. I chose not to react.

"You should take his sheet music. We'll have to leave the piano; it would be too noticeable, and too hard to transport surreptitiously. But you should take his sheet music, as much of it as you like."

I nodded and we both stood so I could remove the music from the compartment in the bench. I placed it in my pack, set my mother's music box above it, and closed the pack up. I took a look around the parlor and then turned to face Carlisle. His head was tilted slightly as he studied me.

"We can take more time, if you like. There's still more than two hours before dawn. Are you sure you have everything you want?"

I donned my pack. "I'd like the paintings eventually, but I have enough." I sighed and gazed one final time at this strangely foreign and familiar room… accepting for once and for all that I no longer belonged here. It was just a house now. Strangely, the thought didn't bring the pain it had when I first entered the parlor several hours earlier. I looked back at the man who would help shape my future.

"Let's go home, Carlisle." I felt the joy swell in him again as he heard the word _home_. I took a deep breath and held it. He put on his pack and took my hand.

"I was thinking, perhaps a little Hayden would be nice for the trip home." My mind was filled again with sounds and sights from his past, and we left through the French doors, resealing this tomb of _my_ past.

* * *

_AN: Please leave me a review if you have the time and energy. I love the input, and respond to every one, so long as you allow PMs. _


	7. Chapter 7

CPOV

I was practically giddy with anticipation as I slowly turned the truck onto the dirt road that led to the house, careful not to let the top-heavy load shift in its bed. I still had several miles before I would have to monitor my thoughts so Edward wouldn't hear my plans. I sighed, relieved that today, finally, there would be one less secret I was trying to keep from him. I would know, based on whether he was surprised, whether I _could _keep things from him. And though the logistics involved in my surprise had been painstaking, I was curious to see if I'd succeeded. But I was _excited _about the surprise itself.

I downshifted, and my thoughts drifted back over the events of the last few weeks, and how I had come to finally be driving such precious cargo down the rough road to my, no . . . _our_ home.

The idea first formed shortly after we returned home from the Masen residence. Edward was so pleased with his new possessions, and so in need of peace after the mentally grueling trip to town, that I decided to take a run and give him some physical and mental privacy. There was the added benefit that I _too_ could consider all that I had learned about him in privacy as well. And though the most thrilling revelation was that he considered my house a home, the most _intriguing_ revelation was that it was possible to drown out some of the thoughts he received. If one thought was compelling enough, it could overwhelm the others, or so it seemed. I wondered if the same principle would apply if I were trying to drown out _my_ other thoughts, rather than the thoughts of other people. So far, I'd attempted to retain my privacy by simply not thinking about things in his presence, but it was an almost impossible feat. How could one concentrate on _not_ thinking about something? Now I had an alternate strategy. If I concentrated on a thought that was a ruse, perhaps I could confuse the emphasis of what he saw in my mind.

A test was in order and I knew just what I wanted to attempt: something of a grand scale, but still not terribly important, in case I failed. I began my plan, and my subterfuge. So if I thought of his father's piano, I immediately thought of the rest of the items listed in the insurance policy so it would seem I were still concerned about the inheritance. If I thought of Chopin, and sheet music, I also thought about the gramophone and various records. I frequently remembered concerts I'd gone to in Europe, both for his entertainment, and to keep me from thinking about my errands when I returned home. I did it whether my errands were secretive of not, so he wouldn't see a pattern. In some ways, I hadn't had to exercise so much discipline since my first century, when I was teaching myself tolerance to the scent and sight of human blood. The challenge was interesting, and of course less potentially fatal than my previous challenges, but if I succeeded, it had broad implications for my life with Edward.

And life with Edward was good — challenging in its own way, but very good. In the weeks since our trip to the Masens' we'd settled into a comfortable pattern. Edward was still incredibly sad at times, and easily frustrated, as any newborn would be, but he seemed less angry. And even better, he seemed to actively seek my company at various points during the day, and even to enjoy it.

It didn't happen all at once. The first few days back from visiting his parents' home were the hardest. He'd stayed in his room, except when he needed to hunt. He went through each of his possessions, poring over the photos for hours at a time. From the desk in my study, I could hear him slowly turning the stiff pages, sighing, rubbing his fingers across the photos. Occasionally I would hear his breath catch in his throat. The springs in his armchair would protest as his body was wracked with sobs. And then I would hear him calm again, and another stiff page turn. Now that his anger was largely gone, he was finally mourning them properly. It was agonizing to witness, and I had no idea really how to help him. He seemed to want to be alone; he was, after all, holed up in his room. But I'd thought the same thing watching him at his father's piano, and he had wanted my company then. I was paralyzed with indecision; I wanted to go to him, but somehow climbing the stairs and knocking on his door seemed like a terrible invasion of his privacy, just as leaving the house seemed like abandoning him. On the third day, I finally approached him in the least invasive way I could.

_Edward,_ I thought from my study, _I can hear how upset you are, and I know you are aware I can hear. Please know that if you need me to leave the house and grant you more privacy, you need only whisper it and I'll be gone for a few hours. Or if you'd like to talk, I am at your disposal. I can come up if you'd rather stay in your room. I don't want to impose on you, but please, just know that I am here for you… if you'd like. _I sighed. It still seemed like such a feeble offer.

"Don't go," I heard him whisper from his room, just as he had in the parlor of his parents' house.

_I won't._ I took The Mabinogion from the shelf behind my desk and began reading the old Welsh quietly aloud, hoping the soft consonants and lilting vowels would hush his sobs and soothe his ears.

Several hours later I'd been surprised to look up and see him leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm sorry I've been so unsociable," he said.

"There's no need to apologize. I've just been worried."

"I know. I've been taking your advice. I'm trying to remember different parts of my human life now, before the memories fade. The photos help me remember. It's hard… sad. I wish I'd told them things…" He looked away for a moment, struggling to control his expression. "I get caught up in it and don't even realize how much time has gone by until my throat burns or I hear you fretting."

I smiled sadly. "I don't mean to burden you Edward… I just haven't known what to do to help."

He shrugged. "You're here," he said simply. That I was.

"Do you need to hunt?"

"Not yet, but I need a break. I'm tired of thinking about my life…let's think about yours for a while." He smiled and walked over to my paintings; my life represented in art. Very little of me was actually represented there; they were mostly paintings of places that were important to me, and like his photos, reminded me of specific times in my life. He stood before the only exception. "Let's start with this big colorful one. What's its significance?" He gasped as he studied the painting, and then turned back to face me. "That's you, isn't it? On the balcony?" I nodded. "When was this done?"

"Ah, let's see. About 1720 or so, in Volterra, Italy."

"Volterra as in Volturi?"

"Precisely," I said, raising my eyebrows and admiring his perceptive mind. "Caius, Aro, and Marcus were patrons of the arts, of sorts. Solimena was only one of the many artists they supported while I was there. But Aro was particularly fond of his work… he enjoyed how Solimena always portrayed them as looking down on the human inhabitants of the city… and it was fitting, he truly did look down on them." I smiled ruefully. "Aro gifted me that one when I left, because I was in it and he hoped it would remind me of happy times, and bring me back to him eventually, eager to change my unnatural ways."

"Aro didn't know you very well, did he?"

"On the contrary, he knew me very well; he just didn't understand me. And I understood him… a little too well."

I got up from my desk and walked over to the wall, a bit to the left of where Edward stood, where a series of much less imposing paintings were clustered. "If you want to understand my life, we'd be better off starting with this one," I said, pointing at a small monochromatic oil painting of London. "I was born in London, in 1640 or so, the only son of an Anglican minister. My mother died in childbirth…"

I'd spent much of the afternoon going over my history to date, moving from painting to painting representing the different major phases of my life: London, Scotland, Paris, Orleans, Volterra, Vienna, Boston, and various towns throughout the northern United States and southern Canada. He had let me talk for hours, asking questions and seeking clarification. Where had I studied first? Why philosophy? What music? When did I first know I wanted to practice medicine? How long had it taken me to be tolerant of the smell of blood?

Finally with the last question, he had decided it was time to hunt. He'd wisely taken to holding his breath while running the first few miles north of the house. The vast wilderness to the north was much less likely to have scents that could tempt or torture him compared to the area immediately around our home. Part of me still thought it would be best to move to a cabin deeper in the woods for his first months, but then I would have to be away from him for even longer periods of time to take care of any business associated with the inheritance. I loathed leaving him alone for more than a few hours at a time. I remembered the excruciating loneliness of my first months, and did not want him to feel it. We each fed, and we started back to the house.

"I don't want to move," he said, answering my unspoken thoughts.

I sighed. "We will have to move within the year anyway. It would, in many ways, be much safer if we moved as soon as initial contact with the solicitor was handled."

"I like our house. And I don't want to make you move all your things just for me. Mine all fit in a pack or two, but moving yours would take some effort."

"As it always does. Edward, I'm no stranger to moving my things. But the logistics are more complicated when you cannot freely take the train with me…this requires some thought."

"I'm doing okay this close to town, let's just stay for now."

I frowned at him, trying to understand his reasoning. "Do you want to be able to visit your parents' house again?"

"No, it's just, I've always lived in Chicago. I'm not ready to leave yet."

I studied him again, about to make further arguments in favor when he interrupted me.

"Let's race home. I need to stretch my legs…I feel like I've been curled into a ball for days." He was almost jubilant, his change in mood abrupt. He'd been waiting too long between his meals. With all the other stress he'd been under his thirst had made him grumpier and more depressed than he'd needed to be.

"Yes, yes," he said rolling his eyes, "I'll feed more regularly. Now let's see what you've got, old man! On your mark, get set…" I barely had time to mimic his crouch. "GO!" Damn, but he was fast. I struggled to keep up.

_Hold your breath as we approach the house, just in case._

"Yes sir!" he laughed, clearly enjoying himself. I saw him take a breath and hold it as we topped a steep hill. The terrain heading down toward the house was rough, and I chose to avoid it altogether by launching myself off a boulder and ricocheting between tree trunks until I reached the bottom, where I briefly — very briefly — took the lead.

"Nice move." He spared the slightest bit of air to compliment me as he bolted past, reaching the front door a full three strides ahead of me, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. He opened the door for me like a gentleman and then collapsed, still grinning, on the sofa. He let out the rest of the breath he'd been holding while I closed the door and sat in one of the armchairs. He looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

"You're going to be insufferable now, aren't you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. His grin widened, if that's possible.

"More so than usual, you mean?" He asked with mock innocence. "I'm just relieved that I'm better than you at _something_. And don't try to say it's just because I'm a newborn…I was fast even before you changed me, and I bet I'll still be fast in a year. Especially if I start using some of the fancy moves of my elders."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was a relief to finally see him happy, and my heart felt light, even if he was baiting me. Newborns and their mood swings. I shook my head. He chuckled at that thought.

"I should head out for a few hours, if you're okay to be alone."

His face fell. "You're not upset are you? Because I was just…"

"No Edward," I reassured, smiling. "I humbly acquiesce to your superior speed. I just haven't checked our post office box for days because I didn't want to leave you alone while you mourned. Your solicitor may be trying to reach us. I won't be long."

"Okay, I'll start reading Father's books, I guess. See you in a bit." He went upstairs, and I went into my study to retrieve the key, and then headed south toward town. When I broke out of the trees, I headed quickly to the post office, only to find the box empty still. That wasn't surprising. I walked to a public park, where I sat and watched children play while I let my thoughts finally roam completely free. I let out a breath, as if I'd been holding it since the last time I'd been alone. And I started to plan. If we were staying — and Edward clearly wanted to — then it was time to make the house more comfortable for him. I formulated my plan — and my plan for hiding it from him — and then headed back home, remembering the performance of The Marriage of Figaro I'd seen in Prague.

And so our daily pattern was finally established. Each morning he'd stay in his room for a few hours and look through his pictures and remember his past. Then he would come downstairs to join me with a book. As we sat, each of us lost in our own thoughts, he'd ask me about a date. The first time he did it, I had no idea what he was after.

"1680," he said, as a complete non sequitur.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, setting down my book.

"1680."

"What about it?"

"Where were you and what were you doing?"

"Oh! Let's see," I said looking at the ceiling. "1680: France. I was at the University of Paris studying French and philosophy."

"Not medicine?"

"Not yet…that came later."

The next day it was 1742.

"Volterra, Italy. Eleazar taught me vampire history and combat techniques.

"1862"

"Maryland. Union Field Hospital."

"You served as a surgeon during the Civil War?"

"I did indeed."

"That must have been… challenging."

"You have no idea." I hesitated to think about, much less describe, the death and blood and infection I associated with that war. Edward noticed my mood.

"1790"

"Vienna, then Prague. I was studying medicine. And occasionally attending concerts." I smiled. I'd already played several of these for him.

After reading for a while, we'd go for a hunt and a run, and then I'd head out to town for a few hours in the afternoon. I'd always come back remembering a play or concert from my past, in hopes that it would hide my shopping trips. By the end of the first week, I'd implemented the first stage of my plan. I was going to need a vehicle, and that also meant I was going to need a garage. The small barn that came with the house was still standing, but its roof wasn't. I bought a Doane HP 6-ton flatbed truck, lumber, and materials for replacing the roof, as well as lumber for some additional woodworking projects, and headed back to the house. I'd expected to find Edward on the porch. Surely the noise of the engine would have piqued his interest. But he was nowhere to be seen.

I entered the house, calling for him, and couldn't find him anywhere. I climbed the stairs, only to be greeted by his empty room. Starting to panic, I made a thorough search of each room, only to hear a knocking from downstairs. I rushed down, and realized the sound was still below me. Entering the kitchen, I found the door to the storm cellar. I entered the dark, dank space and saw Edward huddled in a corner.

"What are you doing down here?" I asked, relief seeping through my bones. He shook his head, and I saw that he was holding his breath. "Was there a problem?" He nodded, locking his arms around his legs, holding himself tight. I knelt next to him, placing both hands on his shoulders and looking into his face. "What happened?"

"Humans," he whispered.

"Here?" I asked, confused. He nodded. I inhaled deeply, looking around. "I don't smell anything."

"I heard a vehicle," he whispered again, careful not to inhale. I smiled, relieved.

"That was me."

"You don't have a car."

"I have a truck," I corrected, "as of two hours ago. Sorry, it was a bit of a whim."

He relaxed into the wall, laughing and running his fingers through his hair.

"I didn't even wait to try to get a scent. I just held my breath. I was afraid it would be too late to control myself if I actually smelled them."

"That was good thinking; it probably would have been. But I think there's little chance that anyone besides me would be brave enough to take a vehicle on our road. Especially after today."

"Why is that?"

"I placed several boulders across the road about a mile from the turn off. I'll be knocking down the vegetation with the truck, and making the road easier for the humans to see, so I thought a more serious barrier was needed to protect our privacy."

He nodded, and then looked at me again, confused. "I'm sorry, why did you buy a truck? I thought we'd decided not to move."

"We decided not to move immediately, but we'll need to move eventually, and I thought we might benefit from having a truck earlier rather than later. I needed it to haul some materials. Will you help me unload?"

"Sure," he said. I stood and held out my hand to him, helping him up. We walked outside and he saw the truck loaded with lumber. "What's all that for?"

"Repairing the roof of the barn, so we can use it as a garage." I thought very hard about a Bach concert, and tried to look as innocent as possible.

"Let me make sure I understand. You bought a truck, because you needed to haul lumber, to repair a roof, so that you could protect a truck."

"Yes," I answered.

"And you see nothing circular about that logic?" He eyed me suspiciously.

I switched to an opera. A very complicated duet. "Well, there will be other advantages to having a truck. If we need to move suddenly, we will be able to…"

"Hmmm." He looked unconvinced, and I gave him a stack of shingles.

"Could you put those in the barn, please?" We both made several trips before he saw the strips of molding.

"Those aren't for the barn, are they?"

"No, I also bought supplies to make you a few bookcases and some picture frames. I thought you might like to display some of your photos downstairs."

"Really?" he asked. "That would be okay?"

"Of course. You're not renting a room from me, Edward; it's your home too."

He smiled at me, and took the molding

Over the next several days, I taught him how to replace the roof. It was enjoyable, sitting so high in the crisp, pale sun, amongst the changing leaves, working together. At one point while we worked he said, "I thought you told me you weren't good at home repair."

"I'm a dismal plumber, but anything to do with woodworking, I quite enjoy. Even in my human life I did a bit of carpentry."

"That plane you were using yesterday looked ancient. Is that from your first life?"

"No," I laughed. "But it's the same basic model, and not _much_ younger than me. I had it in France."

The next week I took the truck out again, and came home with a full set of tools for Edward. I started to teach him how to make a bookcase. He was making a short one to put under the window in his bedroom; I was making a taller one that could house his things in the parlor. We worked side by side in the barn for days, after clearing an area to be our woodshop. He had more patience than I would have expected, planing and sanding the boards until they were virtually perfect, even by vampire standards. He was taking great pride in his work, and it was good to see him pouring his attention and care into it. I even found him out there working on it alone when I'd come back from my trip into town one day. I took pride in the skill he was developing, and in the fact that he seemed to share my enjoyment of carpentry.

Those trips to town had become increasingly frustrating for me. I kept moving further and further south into downtown Chicago, visiting showrooms and warehouses, until one of the dealers mentioned an estate sale. After making that short side trip, I finally found exactly what I was looking for. After some negotiations with the dealer, and receiving instructions in care and maintenance, it was purchased. I told them I'd pick it up the next day. When I returned, the dealer helped me load it into the truck, and now I was bringing it home.

I was pulled from my memories and back to the present as I exited the truck to move the boulders I'd placed in the road weeks earlier. After I drove past them, I returned them to their positions, once again securing our privacy. Only two more miles to go, and Edward could likely hear my thoughts soon. I tried to concentrate on a ballet this time, flooding my mind with the beautiful music and choreography while navigating the last of our dirt road with my precious cargo. But I knew I wasn't devoting my mind entirely the performance. I was too excited, and I was sure he would be able to read it; I just hoped the ballet would hide enough that he'd be surprised, assuming I hadn't let a thought slip in the last few weeks. I really hoped I was surprising him; I hoped it had survived the journey; I hoped he would like it.

When I came into sight of the house, he was sitting on the porch railing, clearly curious. I watched his eyes grow large as he focused on the contents of the truck. He hopped down off the rail and jogged over to the truck as I parked it.

"Carlisle, did you decide to take it from the house?" he asked incredulously.

"No, your father's is still there. This one is yours."

He climbed up into the bed of the truck and caressed the wood, flipping up the guard to expose the keys. He looked at me solemnly. "You bought me a piano?"

I smiled softly. "The sheet music isn't much use without one."

He ran his fingers over the keys. "I can't believe you bought me a piano," he said quietly. He placed his hands on the keys and ran several scales, and turned to me with a huge grin on his face. "It feels great. A little out of tune…"

"I got you a tuning kit as well. It was in tune when we loaded it onto the truck, but it was pretty well jostled on the dirt road, despite my efforts. They trained me how to use the kit; I'm sure we can get it in tune easily. Let's get it into the house so you can start playing with it."

He started unfastening the straps that were holding it in place. "Where do you think it should go?" He was clearly excited.

"Well, seeing as we don't eat, and the dining room is right off the parlor, I was thinking we could move the table into the barn and you could make that your music room."

"Really?" He was incredulous. He moved his hands to support one end of the piano.

"Of course. I have my study; you should have your own room downstairs too. We can add bookcases and a desk to it as well, if you like." I took the other end of the piano and nodded at him. We lifted it easily together, taking it off the truck and up the porch stairs. He held the piano up with one hand while opening the door, and we moved it into the parlor. "Let's set it down here, and remove the table."

We placed the table in the barn, and I noted how really only the center had been ruined during Edward's transformation. The ends could be salvaged to create a writing desk, if he wanted one. We went back to the house and arranged the piano against an interior wall. I went back to the truck to get the tuning kit and bench, and when I returned he had opened up the piano to reveal the strings. I showed him how to use the tuning kit, and he spent the next hour meticulously striking the tuning forks and tightening the strings. When he was finally satisfied, he closed everything back up, and went to his room to retrieve his father's sheet music. I stayed nearby, but out of his way, sitting in the parlor with a book after putting the truck in the barn and draining the water from the radiator. We were already starting to have overnight freezes.

Edward sat at the piano, seeming almost nervous. He started with scales, methodically moving through each octave, making sure each note was true, each key was moving smoothly. Then he did it again, faster, and then faster yet. His grin was ridiculously wide, and I was grinning too, as I watched him while pretending to read in the parlor. He went through the sheet music, settling on Rondo Alla Turka by Mozart. He didn't miss a single note. He played it three times, and then got out another piece of music and played that. For hours he played, working his way through his father's Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, and Liszt. Finally, he closed the key guard, straightened the sheet music and stacked it neatly in the bench. He came into the parlor and collapsed onto the other end of the sofa, closing his eyes and allowing a blissful expression to grace his face. He sat like that for several minutes, and then opened his eyes and rolled his head so he was facing me.

"How did you find it? It's just like his."

"Not exactly. It's about three years newer, and the lettering is in a different color."

He rolled his eyes. "It's better than Father's. On his, the D below middle C sticks; the action on this one is perfect… as smooth as silk. I just don't know how to begin to thank you."

"Oh, I think you've been doing a good job the last several hours." I smiled. "Really, any playing after this is just putting us out of balance…I consider myself repaid in full."

He laughed. "Well, I'll stop playing it then, and we can just admire it from across the room from now on," he teased. Then he sighed happily. "You realize I'm going to need more sheet music…"

"Oh, without a doubt."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking sideways at me. "Seriously, Carlisle. Thank you. It's incredibly generous of you."

"You're welcome," I smiled. "I wanted you to have it weeks ago, but it was remarkably difficult to locate. Did I really manage to surprise you?"

"Yes! Well, mostly. I could tell you had an unnatural fascination with pianos, and really, all the contents of my parents' house. And that story about why you needed the truck was ridiculous… that was all just an excuse so you'd have a truck for transporting the piano, right?"

"For the most part. I fully intended to teach you carpentry as well, but in truth, I could have just carried the materials we needed for the bookcase project. The truck was mostly for the piano. I couldn't very well have it delivered by a team of humans…"

"No, definitely not! Your reasoning was so weak, but I just couldn't see how or why you'd hide the truth. I couldn't see enough of your plan to put it all together. Of course, I didn't know you _could_ hide anything from me, so I didn't try to puzzle it out too much. I'll know better if you ever try it again," he smirked.

"I won't be doing it again unless I have a _very_ good reason," I laughed. "It was utterly exhausting having to monitor my thoughts so carefully. But it's interesting to know that I might be able to keep something from you. Well, for a while, at least."

"And a relief, I imagine."

"A bit of that, too," I acknowledged. "I'm glad you like it. I promise you can pick the next one out yourself." I stood and stretched; it had gotten dark out, and a chill was entering the room. The cold didn't harm me, but I found it depressing, and I didn't want anything marring my cheerful mood. "I think I'll start a fire."

"Let me get the wood from outside." We built the fire together, and sat together, each in an armchair pulled up to the hearth, reading in a comfortable silence. I tried to remember if I'd _ever_ felt so content in my life; absolutely nothing came to mind.

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_AN: I know this chapter was mostly fluff, but we can't have angst and newborn anger all the time. Clouds on the horizon, though. Please let me know your thoughts._


	8. Chapter 8  Thanksgiving Day Extra

_AN: Just a Thanksgiving moment that came as I was preparing the feast._

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CPOV

For the nearly 100 years since I'd made the New World my home, the holiday of Thanksgiving had always bothered me a bit. Perhaps it was because I'd not been raised with the holiday or any recognizable version of it. Perhaps, as a vampire, I simply couldn't understand the visceral and immense relief of having a successful harvest. My ancestors may have been hunters _and _gatherers, but I was strictly a hunter at this point. Perhaps it was because it was impossible to escape the sickening smell of roasting turkey on the air wherever I went. But truly, I think I disapproved of their attitude. It was as if they thought, by devoting an entire day to being thankful, they could take their blessings for granted the rest of the year. It was uncharitable of me, perhaps, but the grace they exhibited on _this_ day just seemed to make their selfishness and apathy more pronounced the rest of the year.

I'd been taught from the earliest age to count my blessings on a daily basis. It had not always been easy. I honestly had no idea how many months I'd skipped in the insanity that had followed my transformation. But once I was in my sane mind, once I realized that I could avoid taking human life, and could dedicate my immortality to some higher purpose than mere survival, I had always found _something_ for which to be grateful. I'd struggled to find things when Solitude made herself too familiar, or when I became weary of having to move once again, leave everything behind once again, and start off once again in a new place, not knowing a single soul. But even then, I'd found _something_ to be thankful for. I was a survivor of plagues, a student of human history, a healer of broken bodies; surely being such a man was a blessing.

And yet _this_ year, for the first time I think, I felt an uncontainable, visceral joy in contemplating all the ways I was blessed. As I collected more wood from the pile at the side of the house, I reveled in how crisp and clear the day was. Frost still decorated the fallen autumn leaves with delicate feathery designs that glittered and shone like my skin in the pale sun. My breath hung in little clouds of venom on the air, before dissipating upwards. Carrying an armload of wood back to the front door, I admired the way that the few leaves remaining on the trees burned in brilliant reds and oranges against the azure sky. But for all the blessings of nature that touched my soul this day, I knew none of them compared to the blessings _within_ my home. I stomped my feet to remove any clinging wet leaves, and opened the door to my home… _our home._

Warmth washed over me. The room was positively cheerful. A joyful Bach concerto played on the gramophone, and a fire blazed merrily in the hearth. I knelt before it, placing one last log in the mix, and stacked the rest on the brick. Edward was draped over an armchair, laughing aloud as he read a short story in one of his father's Mark Twain collections. ("Carlisle, you have to hear this!" he'd said at least fifteen times already this morning, before reading aloud to me, barely able to get the words out in his mirth.) I stood and looked around the room before pulling the other armchair closer to the fire so I could join Edward with a book of my own.

"What has you grinning, old man?" Edward asked without looking up from his book. I glared, pretending to be offended by the nickname he'd given me after hearing my life's story and then, soon afterwards, beating me home in a race after hunting. We both knew the truth, though; I was pleased he was comfortable enough with me to tease.

"Just contemplating what our neighbors are doing today."

A look of concentration crossed his face briefly, followed by understanding. He swung his legs around and planted his feet on the floor, snapped his book closed, and gave me a mischievous look.

"And how _do_ vampires celebrate Thanksgiving?" he asked. "Are we off to hunt turkey this afternoon?"

"No!" I laughed. "Birds are almost never a good idea. All those feathers in your mouth…and the blood is foul."

"Carlisle! Did you just make a pun?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"Not intentionally," I laughed. "Mr. Twain has too much influence on us this morning, I think…"

He smirked and draped his leg over the armrest again, leaning into the corner of his chair and opening his book. "I'm not sure that's possible. It's just as well; I was rather comfortable. I think I'll just thank you for the fire and be done with it." His words were typically cheeky, but he followed them with a sheepish smile, and I knew he was grateful for more than the fire.

I picked up my book, enjoying the comfort of the moment, but the words on the page just swam before my eyes as I began counting my much longer list of blessings.

_Praise ye the LORD. I will praise the LORD with my whole heart…(1)_

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_(1)Psalm 111 (King James Version)_


	9. Chapter 9

_AN: SM still owns the boys. Coleen561 is still a fab beta. The music for this and all chapters can be found on the web playlist (accessed from my profile).  
_

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EPOV

I hung the last photo on the wall of my room and stepped back to appreciate the effect. My parents' photos were now largely removed from the albums and gracing the walls and shelves of my bedroom — my bedless bedroom — and my music room. Carlisle had taught me how make the angled cuts in the molding to form the mitered corners for the frames, how to sand the wood until it was smooth as silk, and stain, oil and wax it until it shone like glass. Once I'd made one, I'd decided I wanted to make dozens. He brought home exotic woods—teak, cherry, maple burl, and cypress. He brought home different colors of stains. He bought me tools that allowed me to create scrolls and embellishments in the wood so that the frames surrounding my mother's face were intricate and delicate. He showed me how to inlay dark woods into light ones, so the frames around my father could be bold and complex. I'd spent weeks making them, first with Carlisle's help and company, then with just his company, and finally with only the company of his mind as he sat in the house answering letters. Now I was finally out of pictures that I wanted to display.

His reasons for teaching me were, of course, complex. Nothing was ever simple with Carlisle. He wanted to give me activity and focus…Carlisle was _never_ idle… never the 'Devil's workshop', and he learned early that I was in a better mood when I didn't have time to brood. It was true. It was easier for both of us when I was well-fed and my mind was occupied. But that wasn't all; he wanted me to feel the presence of my old life in my new… wanted the pictures out so I could admire them and keep them in my daily life, rather than store them away in a book in my room. He wanted them out so he could ask me about them, as I'd asked him about his paintings. But even that wasn't all; that could have been accomplished with store-bought frames. He wanted the pictures of my old life _housed_ in creations made in my new life. The frames, made by me using skills _he'd_ taught me, protected and embellished the photos of my old family; they provided a link between my human life and family with this life, and him. It was really _excruciatingly_ sentimental… annoying, even… and he was careful to never say that was his intention. But I knew the truth; he was able to hide his thoughts for a while — deflect me — but ultimately his true worries and concerns always seemed to break through.

This desire to link himself to my human life also showed his insecurity. He wanted to be inserted into those frames so that I would remember him when I left at the end of the year; he had no doubt that I would. He wanted me to look at those pictures on the wall of my unknown home in a year or two or ten, and not just remember my parents and their stories, but remember watching the leaves turn from the roof of the barn, or coming out of the woodshop together into the pale November sun and realizing that we were both completely covered in a thin film of sawdust, and racing to the creek to bathe. I laughed at the memory, and was annoyed that it was working; I _did_ think of him when I saw these frames. And of course he was right. In a year's time I'd be 18. If I were still in my old life, I'd be striking out on my own, as a man, entering the Army as planned. There was really no reason to change that plan just because I was in a new life now. I couldn't join the Army, Carlisle argued; there would be too much blood to tempt me, and it would be too obvious when I couldn't be shot down… my secret would be out, and the Volturi would descend. No, I couldn't join the Army, but I could still strike out on my own… as a man. Carlisle seemed to expect it, just as my father would have in my old life, though it made him wistful in a way my father had never been. He expected it, and so he was already preparing for it in his own way. And so despite the fact that I was making my mark on our home — filling it with my pictures and music and books — it all felt temporary, which left me feeling insecure as well. Carlisle assured me that this was my home, but I knew from his own thoughts that homes for vampires were inherently transitory; we could not stay in one place, and it was unlikely we'd even stay together. After all, no one had stayed with him before, and I'd made it clear when we began that I would stay only as long as needed for my training and control; it had been true when I said it. And so he was doing, in a much more subtle fashion, what Aro had done with the gift of the Solimena two centuries earlier. Carlisle hoped his efforts would have more effect than Aro's had.

I sighed, thinking about my ever-changing emotions, trying to settle them, _again_. There were times I was so grateful for Carlisle's presence in my life. He was a considerate mentor with patience that would shame a priest, and generosity rivaling St. Nicholas. He worried about me _all the time_, which was annoying, but a bit comforting as well. He was one of the best men I'd ever known, which, of course, made him an intimidating role model; I had no hope of living up to his example or expectations. But even so, he treated me as an equal. He acknowledged that my experience was less extensive, but otherwise treated me as an equal — as a friend, even. We _were_ becoming friends, in many ways, though I could never consider him my equal. He was better than me in almost every way.

But then there were other times, when I didn't feel so grateful — when I realized the limits of my new soulless body, and the potential I would never have. I didn't discuss these thoughts with Carlisle. What would be the point? He'd only beat himself up about changing me, and then I'd have to listen to that too. I already knew all his doubts; I already knew the pain he felt when I told him I considered myself damned. There was no need to rehash that, and so I no longer spoke of it. But he could tell when my mind turned down those dark alleys by my sullen, angry demeanor, and I could hear the apprehension in his thoughts. Sometimes he would clear out and leave me to sulk alone; sometimes he would take me hunting, or insist on a lesson of some sort, but these were diversions. They didn't address the underlying problem: that I could sometimes sense the loss of my soul. I could feel its absence in the way I reacted to things — things I _knew_ and remembered my old reactions to. I was no longer so easily touched, no longer able to express subtle emotion; what other explanation could there be?

But it was fine. I was resigned to this new life. And while this soulless body had its disadvantages, it had advantages as well. I tried to focus on the speed and strength, my acute senses, and how I could now run in three dimensions rather than two. I tried to learn as much as I could from Carlisle, adopting some of his routines. Now that the pictures were on the walls, I spent each morning telling myself the story of my life. "I was born in Chicago in June, 1901…" I whispered, pointing at my baby picture and speaking with the same tone and inflection that Carlisle had used all those weeks ago in front of his paintings. It already sounded like myth to me, rather than memory. I retold my story every day, realizing that as the memories faded, this chronicle would be all I had left.

I finished earlier than usual and went downstairs to the music room to put the final photo on a shelf in there. The room had been completely transformed in the past weeks. That beautiful, perfect piano was still the centerpiece. _My_ piano — my joy, my sanity, my salvation. However, it was no longer the only piece of furniture in the room. Now there were bookcases lining the wall on either side of the window, and a small desk nestled under it so I could look outside toward the creek as I sat. My books were mostly downstairs now. The shelf space that wasn't filled with books housed more pictures in handmade frames and a series of flat boxes. Each box had an apothecary label on its end, listing the composer whose sheet music lay within. The boxes were in alphabetical order, and the music within them was organized by date. I now had nearly a hundred pieces of music to chose from on a daily basis, and I could find any of them in a second with the filing system Carlisle and I had devised. I left the room, caressing the warm wood of the piano as I passed, silently promising I'd be back soon.

I went to Carlisle's study, but found it empty. I stilled, listening. I heard rhythmic scratching and muted, quiet thoughts… he was writing somewhere in the house. I followed the sound upstairs, entering his room to find it too was empty. The sound was still coming from above me.

"Carlisle?" I asked quietly.

His pen stilled. "I'm upstairs."

"I _am_ upstairs," I replied, looking around.

"Go out my window, and enter the window above it to the left."

I followed his instructions, letting myself into the attic. I found Carlisle sitting at a desk. A row of file cabinets lined the wall to his right, and bookcases on the wall behind him housed a collection of legal texts that more than rivaled those in my father's study. It looked like Carlisle was writing a letter.

"What's all this?" I asked.

"This is the international headquarters of CC Enterprises, Inc.," he said, finishing the sentence he was writing and then looking up, smiling. I raised an eyebrow. "Since I have to reinvent my identity every decade or so, it's easier if I don't personally own my property. I'd have to find a way to inherit it after each demise. So the corporation owns everything, and I just change the ownership over to my new identity as necessary. Since much of what I do up here involves illegally forging new papers for myself, it seems best to make it hard to reach, in case anyone stumbles across my home while I'm at work. So I typically make the corporate office in a room without a door. I covered over the attic stairs in this home when I moved in."

"I've never known you to be up here," I remarked, confused that he could keep something so large from me.

"I'm up here almost every morning, I'm just usually done by the time you leave your room. I'm actually writing to Mr. Campbell at the moment, but I needed to look up an inheritance tax statute, and all my law books are up here."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, we're just trying to determine the best way to protect your inheritance. He's suggesting that we place it into a conservatorship account, tied to an investment bank. But if the investors were at all unscrupulous, they could rob you blind before we saw what was happening, unless we constantly reviewed their efforts. I was going to talk to you about another option. You could found a corporation, not unlike my own. Then your home could be rented, and the income wouldn't be taxed as personal income, but could pay for a manager to look over all your investments, and would likely still increase your assets. For the time being, I could ask my asset manager to manage your accounts as well. We'd keep everything separate, of course; I just know him, trust him, and pay him enough that he doesn't ask uncomfortable questions. If you approve that plan, it would offer an advantage when you need to reinvent yourself next year; everything would already be set."

I groaned inwardly, having vague déjà vu of conversations between my father and me about assets and careers and 'financial security'. Wasn't one of the benefits of being a mythological monster the ability to avoid such mundane concerns? I looked up at the ceiling and composed myself… I didn't want to hurt Carlisle's feelings just because this crap bored me to tears. "That sounds good. I don't really know anything about investments. I guess I'll follow your lead, until I learn enough to make my own decisions about it. If this is what you've settled on as the best way after a few hundred years, that seems like a good start to me."

"Good. I'll suggest it to him, and put him in touch with my asset manager to draw up the incorporation paperwork. And when it's drafted, I'll take you through it item by item so you understand why it's set up the way it is. We'll use my paperwork as a template."

I sighed. Clearly I was going to have to feign an interest in my financial future. "Were there any problems with the inventory?" I asked.

"No, everything was accounted for except the heart necklace." Carlisle chuckled softly. "He wrote me several weeks ago fairly panicked about _that_, but I assured him you had it. I told him that your mother had worn it to the hospital, and asked one of the nurses to transfer it to you when she felt herself slipping. I explained that she had told you the story of how your father had bought it for her when you were born, and that you decided to keep it with you after she died. It's fairly close to the truth…"

"And that sounds like her, actually. Did he accept that explanation?"

"He did. He told me that he'll be sending you a complete inventory with approximate values; he wants you to list any items you want to liquidate, so he can hire an estate auctioneer if necessary. If you chose to rent it, I'd recommend leaving it furnished, but removing any personal effects. And anything you don't want to keep yourself that would likely disappear with the first tenets may as well be liquidated now. He also asked me to wish you a speedy recovery from your lingering pneumonia… and he hopes you are enjoying your private nurse," he smirked a little.

"I have a private nurse?" I asked.

"Well, of course; there's no other way I could leave you to meet him, if that becomes necessary. Of course, I'm paying for that out of my own pocket, since your estate is still tied up, and I am such a close family friend."

"Thanks for that," I smiled.

"It was the least I could do."

"What is she called? In case he asks me when we finally meet."

"Coleen O'Malley, a nurse I worked with in Boston. Of course, he doesn't know that was in the 1830s." He laughed softly. "It's a common enough name; if he decides to hunt her down, it should just lead to confusion."

"Does he want to meet you?"

"Professionally, he would like to, but he's frightened. The reason it took them so long to make first contact with us is that Mr. Campbell himself was ill with influenza as well. He recovered rather quickly, so it might not be the same strain as you had. He's afraid of being exposed to your germs, even vicariously through me. It's ironic; you _are_ a threat to him, but certainly not for the reason he's worried about. It's working to our advantage, though. He's very accepting of any medical delay we request, and the delays he's causing are just buying you more time to gain control before you have to meet him, without raising suspicions. I was able to give him enough details about the house and the contents of the safe that he's completely convinced of my role, and doesn't feel the need to bother you during your recovery. I have his letters here, if you'd like to go through them," he said, motioning to a small box with another apothecary label marked 'Edward Masen's Inheritance, 1918'. "You haven't seemed interested in the details before this, but I'm happy to go over any of it with you."

"I'm still not that interested," I smirked, sounding like a complete brat. I grinned at him and he shook his head, a small smile turning his lips as he continued writing. I was trying to be patient; trying to appreciate the care he took with this, as he took with everything in his life, but I'd reached my limit. I looked around the room, reading the titles of the books as he continued with his letter. This office was so different from his study. It was all practicality and efficiency. There were no pictures on the walls or little artifacts from his travels on the shelves. There _were_ two framed law degrees, one from 1842, and one from 1902. The books were mostly law and tax books, but there were also a few economics books.

"You're a lawyer, too?" I asked.

He looked up at me, and then followed my gaze to his degrees. "No, I never practiced, but I've been to law school several times to gain the knowledge needed to effectively renew my identity and run the corporation. I set things up at the corporation when I first formed it, and know enough to effectively initiate changes to the way my investments are handled. I should really go again; the law is changing constantly. But I don't really enjoy it enough to be more involved. So I hire _real_ lawyers and managers to do the bulk of the work… Mr. Jackson manages my assets now, and he does a commendable job; I get a quarterly report from him listing all my investments, any maintenance that's had to be done to the properties, and so forth."

"Well, now that I know you don't enjoy it, I feel even more grateful that you are willing to handle all this," I said. "I mean that," I reiterated, worried that my snotty attitude earlier might make me seem insincere.

"It's not a problem, Edward. It turns out that Mr. Campbell is quite diligent and seems to genuinely have your best interest at heart, which makes my job quite a bit easier. He's just not… fully aware of your situation, shall we say. Therefore, he can't make the best choices for you. My knowledge is sufficient to get things set up. You will at some point have to decide whether to rent the house, or just have a management company maintain it. The latter can get rather expensive without the lease income to offset upkeep. Homes can be expensive to maintain. You could also sell it, but there may be an opportunity to use it down the road when your control is better."

"Okay, I'll think about it," I said, not really wanting to, but realizing that Carlisle's care with his finances had afforded me my piano, sheet music, gramophone records…everything that kept me sane. I would have to learn to care about corporations and 'asset management' if I wanted to 'maintain the lifestyle to which I'd become accustomed' as my father would have put it. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Terrific. Fortunately, enough time had been spent on it today. We fell into silence again as he finished his letter, and I pondered the similarities and differences between Carlisle and Ed Senior. "Carlisle?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you play chess?" He was taken aback by the question, and I heard a fleeting thought about newborns and their attention spans.

"I know how to play, and I have a board in one of those boxes," he said, waving to a stack of moving crates along the far wall of the attic. "But there isn't much time at the hospitals I've worked at to play, and I've never had anyone in my home before, so I haven't had a lot of practice since I left Vienna. Why, would you like to play some time?"

"I was wishing I'd taken my father's board a few days ago, though I didn't think of it when we were at the house. I like to play."

"Well, try the box at the bottom of that stack… if memory serves, that's where mine is. We could set it up in the parlor." His mind was glowing, pleased that I was requesting something that we would clearly do together. I rummaged through the box he indicated while he finished his letter. I found the board, and a small box that held each piece in a separate slot. The pieces were beautiful, clearly hand carved.

"What are these made from?" I asked, holding up a pawn.

"Travertine and onyx; it's from Italy."

"It's an antique?"

"As am I," he said nonchalantly, reading over the last of his letter. He signed it, waved it briefly to dry the ink, then folded it and sealed it in an envelope. He picked up another, addressed to Mr. Jackson, that he'd clearly written earlier.

"Are you already writing to Mr. Jackson about managing my estate?" I asked, a little concerned that he'd written his manager before talking to me.

"No, I was making some adjustments to my beneficiaries, and asking him if he were willing to take on another account. I'm sure he'll say yes, but it's more polite to ask first." He placed the letters in his pocket and took the board. I replaced the pawn to the box.

"Are you going to take those to the post office today?" I asked. His mind flashed with the post office, and then images of children playing in the grass amongst changing leaves, and then a different scene of people dressed in black on a moonlit hillside… and then his mind abruptly filled with a Mozart concert. He was hiding something. "What was that?" I asked.

"I go to the park when I'm in town, and watch the families. Let's head downstairs."

"What was the other scene?"

He paused, contemplating what to say, and decided to simply answer, "Italy."

He jumped out the window to the small balcony below, and I sighed and followed. He didn't want to discuss the seeming random images he associated with the post office. I really couldn't begrudge him his privacy, even though I was so used to knowing everything in his mind that I found it annoying when he kept things from me. I was growing appallingly nosy. I really had to try to check that behavior. Maybe I was just irritated that he was so much better at deflecting his true thoughts than I was at tuning them out. I really should practice more.

Once in the parlor, Carlisle set the board up on a small side table between the two armchairs in front of the hearth. "Did you want a game of chess now, or after you play?"

"Later, I think. I want to pull out that Debussy that you purchased yesterday."

"We should hunt early, too; yesterday's meal was too small for you. Your eyes are already darkening. We should probably head northwest; game is getting sparse around here."

"Hmmm. Wonder whose fault that is…" I said, walking into the music room. The local herds were in better shape when Carlisle was able to get by with one buck a fortnight. My once or twice daily meals were taking a toll on the local wildlife. "Getting to a new area sounds good; I'd like the change of scenery anyway. Let me play for a few hours, and then we can head out."

Carlisle retrieved a book from his study… Les Miserables… and then sat in the parlor as I made my selections from my shelves. I removed a Bach concerto, and then skipped over the C's and removed the new Debussy. I heard the concern in Carlisle's mind as he noted the pattern he'd witnessed over the last several weeks but I ignored his anxiety, and his theories as to why I always skipped the C's. I removed a Liszt and a Mozart. I sat at the piano, playing the Mozart first to warm myself up. Mozart always brought simple happiness to both of us, and I could hear the worry in Carlisle's mind dissolve into joy.

And then I spread out the new Debussy. This was my favorite part of my new life: pulling out a new crisp sheet of music that I've never heard before, and had no preconceived ideas about, looking up any notations I didn't already know and teaching myself to play it. It brought satisfaction on so many levels. My new mind was just so quick at interpreting the notes on the page, my fingers so skilled at finding the keys. But the fun lay in the notations. Terms like _pianissimo _and _adagio_ were ultimately subjective, and allowed a certain creativity in interpretation. If I'd never heard a piece before, I felt an incredible freedom to experiment, and play with the tempo and dynamics. "Clair de lune" was proving a challenging piece, written in a compound triple meter of 9/8 time, with a series of rolling arpeggios that even _I_ had to practice several times to play perfectly smoothly. Depending on how I played with the dynamics I could make it sound sweet and poignant or heartbreaking and laced with expectancy. It was delightful. And the experience of learning a new piece of music was always intensified by the joy and pride it brought Carlisle. He'd moved the furniture in the parlor the second week I had the piano, placing the two armchairs by the hearth, and the sofa next to the wall so that he could watch me play while he read. Now we spent hours in these exact positions every day. I could always tell when I'd hit on the right combination of force and speed, or achieved subtle shifts in timing, based on when I felt the bliss exude from his mind. After listening for a half hour he rose to return his book to the study, thinking to himself that Hugo was far too brutal and depressing for the exquisite music we were experiencing.

"I can switch to Beethoven…something peevish, if you'd like to stick with your book," I suggested as I continued playing.

"No, no. You carry on, I'll find something more appropriate."

"The piece was inspired by a poem…Paul Verlaine."

Carlisle paused. "Really, I have some of his. Which one?"

I stopped playing and turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. "Clair de lune?"

He smiled. "Oh, of course." He retrieved a collection and quickly found the correct poem, reading it aloud for my benefit as well.*

We continued thus until I had played it straight through to my satisfaction several times. I could tell it would become one of my favorites. It was bittersweet and lovely, and appealed to my tousled newborn, yet slightly melancholy, sensibilities. I felt so well satisfied by the time I'd mastered it that I decided against playing the other pieces I'd selected, and simply put all the music away and sunk into the sofa opposite Carlisle, grinning like an idiot… like always. My mind and my dead heart felt completely sated; now it was time to feed my body.

"Are you ready to hunt?" I asked lazily, still reveling in my post-piano glow. He smiled openly at me, enjoying my uncomplicated mood.

"As soon as you are," he answered. He put away his book, and we both put on boots for long-distance travel before we headed into the forest.

We ran far, just enjoying the feeling of stretching our bodies. This was my second favorite part of my new life: sharing a good run with Carlisle. I was faster; there was no longer a debate between us on that issue. But there was something more balanced in his frame that made his stride, his form, a joy to watch. Where I felt lanky and bounding, Carlisle moved with a grace that rivaled dance, and I could appreciate it like any art form. I was actually rather jealous of it. We were both beautiful, of course; that was just an artifact of the venom that brought us into this life. But there was a wisdom and grace in the way that Carlisle carried himself that I admired in my mentor, even when we were doing something so strictly physical as running. I wondered if I would ever gain a similar refinement, given my arrested development.

We ran for more than two hours, ignoring the scent of small prey, before pausing at the top of a glacial hill. A wide marshy valley stretched below us, and on the shores of a broad lake was the largest herd of deer I'd ever seen. We were in for a feast, and Carlisle grinned at me as we headed down the hill. I turned myself over completely to my instincts, realizing that I was really very thirsty. I was preparing to pounce upon my first kill, when we hit the valley floor and the wind abruptly shifted. I heard Carlisle's reaction before I smelled the shimmering, enticing new scent myself, but the scarlet shield that already covered my eyes prevented rational action.

"Edward, NO!" I heard Carlisle scream, his echoing voice reaching me as if it were coming from a distant shore across open water. In my peripheral vision I saw him leap over me in a somersault. The crimson veil over my eyes grew darker, and I raised my nose to the air; suddenly Carlisle's crouching body filled my entire view. "I won't let you past me, Edward. Do you understand? They are _not_ yours!" My mind was abruptly filled with screaming humans and feeding Volturi — a familiar horror. But unlike the last time Carlisle had used this vision to shock me out of a feeding frenzy, I found myself watching the vampires, not the humans. And then I remembered the flavor of my own blood, as I once experienced it in Carlisle's memory. Venom flooded my mouth.

I crouched and snarled at him, realizing that the new prey was directly behind him. He was blocking my way, purposefully placing himself between my quarry and me; it was not to be tolerated. "MOVE!" I growled, surprised by the viciousness of my voice, and the snapping of my jaws.

His eyes were sad, but his face grew grim and determined. The Italian hillside flashed through his mind before he blocked it out with the memory of my own playing that morning. "You will have to go through me to get to them, Edward. I recommend _against_ it." His voice was calm, but held a razor's edge.

"I am stronger _and_ faster than you, old man. Move aside, NOW!" I spat.

He tilted his head slightly, and deepened his defensive posture. He was waiting, using his infuriatingly _infinite_ patience against me once again. All I felt was raw urgency. I was done waiting. I screeched my defiance, and lunged.

* * *

_*Moonlight_

_Your soul is a select landscape  
Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go  
Playing the lute and dancing and almost  
Sad beneath their fantastic disguises._

_All sing in a minor key  
Of victorious love and the opportune life,  
They do not seem to believe in their happiness  
And their song mingles with the moonlight,_

_With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,  
That sets the birds dreaming in the trees  
And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,  
The tall slender fountains among marble statues._

_Paul Verlaine, 1869_

* * *

_AN: My poor boys are in a rough spot at the moment... I'd love to hear your thoughts._


	10. Chapter 10

_AN: Thanks as always to my amazing beta, Coleen561. She continues to keep me grounded, and allows me to test ideas…SM continues to own these boys, even when they are tearing each other apart…_

* * *

CPOV

As soon as I smelled the hunters… that mix of human blood and gunpowder… my heart sank. What were they doing here? We were in the middle of nowhere, several inches of snow blanketing the wilderness. It hadn't even occurred to me to check the valley for humans. I'd been so careful, for so long; I'd kept Edward safe, despite our proximity to the city, and now, _here_, deep in the forests of northern Minnesota, my worst fears were being realized.

I'd dreaded this moment for weeks, longer even… since he saw the moment of his transformation in my memory and related more to the vampire than the victim. I suspected then that he was drifting too far from his prior life for a mental appeal to his humanity to be an effective way to stop his instincts. I'd been so _lucky_ that first day, being able to stop him with no show of force. Today would not be so straightforward. The vision of the Volturi feeding had only seemed to encourage his bloodlust. If he were not going to empathize with the humans in those visions, then nothing I could show him from my years with the Volturi would help; and I had nothing worse in my experience to draw on.

I'd prepared myself for this moment, but I'd hoped it would never come — that I would never be forced to face off with my best friend, my companion, my… son. The thought of facing him was frightening… but the thought of losing him was _terrifying_. Facing him was the only option, and I did not take it lightly. He _was_ faster and stronger than me. But those issues could be easily dealt with if it weren't for his gift. _That_ was what had driven me to the park during my visits to town…the knowledge that I would have to be so fine-tuned a fighter that my actions were essentially automatic — all intuition and preplanned contingencies. Any strategy I tried to form in his presence would be heard mentally and countered before I'd have a chance to act on it. So for weeks now, since I'd delivered the piano, I'd used my time in town to review all of the combat training I'd learned while with the Volturi.

Eleazar had been a brilliant instructor and strategist. Most training had occurred in the castle, but he'd taken us out into the countryside at night to simulate real battles. I remembered his lessons well: use the landscape, do the unexpected, stay focused, and keep your enemy in front of you. I'd spent hours during the last few weeks sitting in the park, reviewing techniques, creating contingencies, and assessing Edward's strengths and weaknesses. I'd created scenarios in my mind of how we might meet in combat, and then strategies for dealing with each one… preparing, always preparing. If I'd merely had to defend myself, I could have done it easily. I was sure I could deflect his attacks until he got bored with fighting. But I knew the only reason we'd battle in earnest would be if there were humans to safeguard. In order to keep my promise and protect him from his own instincts, I would have to actually subdue him; I would have to counteract the scent of the humans. That was an entirely more complicated dilemma… and the moment was now upon me.

I blocked him from my mind using the first thing I could think of: his playing that very morning, when his face glowed with joy and achievement and concentration, rather than the feral malice and fury that twisted his features around his black eyes now. But then I realized that I didn't want either of us to associate that beautiful piece of music with what was about to transpire. As he tried to bait me verbally, I decided to switch to music I'd once heard emanating from a country dance in southern Scotland, as I sat in the nearby woods a few years after my transformation. The playing was poor and the instruments had not held their tune. If I couldn't cripple him with images of Volturi horrors, maybe the horrors of really bad music would affect him.

I appraised him from my crouch, waiting. My beautiful boy — normally a shining, radiant, amusing if prickly inspiration to me — was reduced to a snarling, snapping beast. His rage was building, and I watched his muscles clench and the tendons in his neck bulge as he reacted to my defensive pose. His nostrils flared and teeth gnashed, and the most horrible expression darkened his face as he threw insults at me. Because of me. I'd reduced him to this state. My selfishness changed him, and my lack of caution placed him in this predicament. And so I would protect him from himself, even if it hurt me… even if it hurt him. _I'm sorry, Edward._

He screamed and lunged at me, and I parried to the left, grabbing his hands and using his momentum to swing him around me and throw him back from where he'd come and slightly to the right, toward the lake. He crashed into a tree, splintering the trunk, and then landed with a _squelch_ into the snow and semi-frozen waterlogged soil. I quickly moved to my right to position myself between him and the hunters; I crouched again, waiting, and trying to keep my mind blank except for the 1665 reel. Edward stood, furious and covered in reeking mud; his obsidian eyes flashed as he screeched at me. Abruptly, a gunshot sounded about a mile in the distance behind me, and I wondered if Edward could hear their thoughts.

"The prey are frightened," he sneered, grinning. I frowned, wishing I could keep a better hold on my thoughts, which made him laugh… it was not a pleasant sound. His voice sounded odd, almost metallic.

"They aren't prey, Edward. They are people, like you once were, like your parents were, like I was once, long ago," I said cautiously as I shifted, countering his movements.

He frowned, pausing for a moment, a slight look of comprehension crossing his features. I thought for a moment I had him back, and then the wind gusted, bringing a new potent burst of aroma with it. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back with an expression of pure ecstasy. _Lord, what are you doing?_ I prayed. _Have mercy on us… on _them_! Give me strength…_

"Cut it out, Carlisle," he spat, the ecstasy gone from his face. He leaned forward. I concentrated on the music again, and studied his posture, trying to determine how he would attack next. He didn't. He tried to break past me to my right. Damn, he was so fast… I barely saw it in time. I ran straight toward the lake to intercept him, pouncing. I grabbed the shoulders of his shirt, tearing it as I twisted him to face me and we toppled over into a rolling somersault. I pulled my legs up between us as we rolled, and when I was on my back I abruptly straightened my legs, catapulting him toward the lake again. I sprang up and ran to follow, heavy footfalls pounding in the snow, sending it flying behind me. I found him just as he regained his feet. He lunged at me, and I didn't have time to position myself to deflect it entirely. He hit me with enough force to send me into a neighboring tree, but I was able to grab the hair at the base of his neck and take a bit of it with me. He howled in rage and pain. Snow collapsed from the tree branches as I crashed into the trunk, obscuring my view for a moment, and then he was upon me again; he bit my arm before I twisted my body, slid my right leg behind his, and forced him backwards against it. He fell on his back with a thud and I grabbed his ankle and swung him around by it and threw him again. He landed in the reeds, a plume of snow rising and falling, and then he was up again, running toward me, _furious_. The monster was etched on his every feature, and he was so feral at this point he was completely beyond speech as he tore through snow to get to me. The hunt was all but forgotten. Perhaps my luck was changing.

He lunged at my neck, jaws snapping. I crouched and leaned right, throwing my hands up together to push him up and over me, but he was able to take a bite out of my shoulder on his way. I shrieked in pain, and twisted to watch where he fell. Scraps of my shirt fluttered down through the air, contrasting with the heavy projectile of Edward, crashing into the ground and causing another cloud of snow to rise and fall like a breath. I groaned.

_No! No! NO! I'm not between them anymore! Now _HE'S_ closer to the hunters . . ._

Edward's head snapped up at this thought, and I cursed myself, concentrating again on that bloody reel, which I was _really_ starting to hate. I was already running at full speed when he scrambled to his feet, moving toward the east, toward the hunters, rather than to me. I tackled his legs and then tried to move up his body as he pushed himself up off the ground.

This had to end now, before he did any more damage to me and I couldn't compensate for his speed and tenacity. I jumped and swung my leg between his knees and out to the right, knocking his right leg out from under him while planting my other knee into his left thigh, throwing him forward. As he fell I pinned his arms up behind him. He landed face down in the snow with a soft _thunk_. It had happened in a fraction of a second, but I had him firmly beneath me. He attempted to get his right leg under him again, but I kept it hooked over mine, and dug my heel into the snow to keep his legs splayed. He tried to twist his torso back and forth, muffled growls emanating from the snow. I leaned forward, my head just above his neck, forcing his shoulders deeper into the snow. He was secured, and I was over him. Thankfully I out-weighed him enough that he couldn't throw me off easily. Perhaps this was over now, and I could just keep him pinned like this until the hunters left and the air was clean again.

He shrieked into the snow, his jaws snapping and his fingers reaching behind him, grasping for any part of my head they could reach. He was pinned, but I was still vulnerable in this position. He grasped my ear and squeezed, and as I shifted away from his hand, my leg slipped, and he was able to get his right leg under him a bit more. I sighed. NO, this was not over; I was not going to be able to hold him like this indefinitely.

_I'm sorry, Edward._ I bit into his right shoulder and pulled, creating another tear in his shirt and a matching one in his shoulder-blade, which ran an inch deep and several inches long. It would separate his arm from his body if it continued to rip away. He howled in pain, and I used the moment to release his torso, twist my body, and bite his left calf, creating a similar, if shallower, wound. He screeched, twisting violently to throw me off. I rolled several times through the snow before scrambling to my feet. We both stood, facing off again. I feinted right and then lunged, but he must have seen it in my head, because he swung his good arm at me, making perfect contact with my face and sending me backwards, tumbling through the air. By some miracle, I twisted my body so I could land on my feet, and was running toward him again as he turned and ran toward the hunters. Even with his wounded leg, I could barely keep up with him, and I was worried I still wouldn't be able to overtake him. In desperation, I remembered the first vision I'd ever sent him: the false image of his bleeding, dying mother, focusing on her pained and terrorized face. He stumbled, and twisted his leg, deepening the rip I'd initiated there. He howled and stumbled again, and I caught him.

I grasped him from behind, pinning his arms back, and arching backward until his feet were lifted off the ground. I started carrying him toward the water. As soon as he read my intentions he started thrashing and hissing, trying to turn and snap his jaws at my face. I was afraid he was going to tear his own arm off in his effort to get away from me. I started to run awkwardly, realizing that my grip on him was slipping. My feet broke through the thin sheet of ice that covered the shore of the lake, and I kept moving deeper as snow began to fall lightly. Edward seemed truly terrified now, but it was finally over. My grip was not going to slip before he was submerged.

"You may be stronger and faster than me, young man, but I have greater skills, and I weigh more."

I plunged in, expelling the air in my lungs so that I sank as quickly as possible, and kept pushing my feet along the bottom to move us into deeper and deeper water. Edward's shredded shirt floated and danced in the water as he thrashed against my chest.

_Calm down, Edward! The water can't hurt you. You can't drown. Just take a breath and cleanse your senses… Think back to my memories, when I tried to drown myself. It didn't work. The fresh water won't burn the way the sea burned my nose. It will be uncomfortable, but it won't harm you… Just take a breath, Edward._

He froze briefly, listening to my thoughts, but then continued to twist and struggle against me.

_I'll do it first. See?_ I took in a lungful of water and held it. It felt cold and heavy in my body, and I resisted the urge to cough it out. _Read my thoughts, Edward, I'm fine. It's heavy, and uncomfortable, and the flavor is terrible, but I'm fine._

He stilled briefly again, and then continued to resist. I shook my head, and adjusted my grasp on him so that I was pinning his arms to his sides and could link my hands over his abdomen, holding his back close to my chest. His legs flailed in the water in front of him, but his torso was considerably more still, despite his continuing struggles. I made a fist with my left hand, covered it with my right, and abruptly tightened my hold on him, pulling my fist up and into his body, just below his sternum. Large bubbles escaped his mouth, and he instinctively sucked in another breath when I loosened my hold — this time of water.

The effect was immediate.

He stiffened; he choked on the water and took in another breath, choked on that one and then took another. His chest heaved as he took in breath after breath of clear water. And then he stilled completely, and I felt him go limp, and sink back into my chest. Relief flooded through me.

_You're okay, Edward. You're okay. I've got you, and you're going to be fine._ I kept repeating these thoughts, like a mantra, as I felt him return to himself, the beast finally at bay. I stopped remembering that infernal reel, and tried to open my mind completely to him. I showed him my relief that he was still here with me, how proud I was of all his achievements… even, ironically, the fact that he'd managed two good swipes at me during his first fight. I adjusted my grip, changing my cage-like hold to more of an embrace, and felt his body begin to shake with sobs. He threw his head back against my shoulder, and sunk further into my chest. _Shhhh. Oh Edward, I'm so sorry you're hurt, but it's all repairable. Don't worry; I'll fix every wound. You'll be able to run again. There's no permanent damage to either of us. We're going to be fine. _I adjusted my embrace again, wrapping an arm over his shoulder, and smoothing his hair, trying to calm him. _Shhh. We're fine…we're fine._

After several minutes, he turned in my arms, not trying to escape, but just face me. I allowed it, and saw the extent of the anguish on his features. My heart clenched. He looked in my eyes, and mouthed, "I'm sorry…"

_Oh, my dear boy. _I smoothed his hair back and held my hand on the back of his neck. _You've done nothing wrong._ He scowled and looked away. _Edward, really... We're fine! _

He looked at me, his face at once sorrowful and skeptical. I brushed his bangs back again…a hopeless attempt with the water swaying them this way and that, and I smiled my relief at him. I was so grateful that I hadn't lost him; I was almost overcome.

_We'll stay down here until they're gone. Can you hear their thoughts still?_

He looked to the east and then back to me, nodding.

_Let me know when they're gone._ He nodded again, and then shuddered. I heard a muffled whimper, and he leaned into me. I wrapped one arm over his shoulder, and held him to my side, careful of his injuries. I looked up, watching the snow fall onto the surface of the lake. I felt his arm come up around my waist, clinging to me as he fought his sobs. _Shhhh. We're fine… We're fine._

Over time the snow ceased, and the light changed, first becoming brighter and then slowly fading. Edward straightened up, and I loosened my hold on his shoulder. He looked to the east, and then back at me. _They're gone?_ He nodded. _Stay here and let me check the air. I'll be back in a few minutes to tell you if it's safe._

I swam to the surface, struggling against my own weight, my shoulder stinging with the effort. I reached the shore and climbed out, bending over to retch the water out of my body. It took several minutes to clear it all, and for me to feel confident that I'd be able to smell whatever was on the air. I stood and took a deep breath, coughing out some residual water, and then sampling the air. It was clear… the wind was still coming from the east, and was completely clear. A new surge of relief swelled through me. The threat was past, and dusk was upon us. I held my breath and went back into the lake to retrieve Edward. _Just walk on the lake bed, Edward… your arm is too injured to try to swim. Follow me._ I led him back to shore, and supported him as knelt and choked and sputtered the water from his lungs. He couldn't move his injured arm at all. After several minutes, he spoke with a scratchy voice.

"I'm so sorry, Carlisle…"

"Edward, don't be ridiculous. Now sit down, and let me fix the damage I've done to you."

He frowned. "How _does_ one repair a stone body?" he asked.

"Like all good beasts, we lick our wounds," I said as I knelt behind him and slid my fingers into the tear in his shirt. I ripped it further and pushed the scraps away so I had clear access to the tear in his flesh. He looked over his shoulder at me and raised an eyebrow, silently asking me if I were serious. "Venom heals," I explained with a quick smile. "Now hold still; this is going to feel a little strange."

I lowered my mouth to his wound, sucked, and then spat out the dirt and water that was lodged deep in it onto the snow. I repeated this several times, until I was sure the wound was clean. Edward stiffened and I paused.

"Is it okay? Am I hurting you?"

"No, it's fine. Strange…like you said. Your mouth feels warm…"

"You must be cold if _my_ mouth feels warm," I laughed, my relief and happiness seeping into my voice. I placed my hands on either side of the wound and lined up the edges. It was true; he was cold. The remnants of his drenched shirt were freezing to his body. I covered his wound with my mouth again, and then slipped my tongue deep into it, laving the crevices with venom before coating the shallower portions of the laceration. When I was confident that the entire interior of the gash was lathered in venom, I pulled my mouth back and brought my hands together, sealing the tear. Edward shuddered slightly as I examined his shoulder. I licked the cut, smoothing it with my tongue so the scar would be minimized. After about five minutes, the wound was completely sealed.

"Move your arm, please."

He did, rotating it stiffly, and I studied the cut, applying more venom as he stretched the scar. After several minutes, he had a full range of motion again, and the tear did not reopen as he stretched. I moved in front of him. "Lean back on your elbows and give me your left calf." He complied and I repeated my ministrations, somewhat self-consciously as he watched me intently. After ten minutes, he was able to stand on the leg and test it.

"Good as new," he said, clearly amazed. "Now it's your turn."

"My turn? Oh, my shoulder, I'd almost forgotten…"

"I hadn't," he said darkly. "Sit down…let's see if I've learned anything." He knelt on one knee behind me and tore my shirt open over my shoulder. He gasped slightly when he saw the bite. "I'm sorry, Carlisle."

"Stop, Edward; it will be fine."

He lowered his mouth to my shoulder and sucked the wound clean. It _was_ warm, and the pressure was pleasant as the venom started to soothe the injured flesh. I sighed and closed my eyes as he continued to work. I'd ignored the sting of his bite for hours, but now that there was relief, it really felt good. My whole body felt warmer as his touch and venom healed my body, and my relief and happiness healed my soul. He was here. No one had been killed, and he was still here. The weight that had knotted in my stomach was finally dissipating. I felt elated… light. I let out another relieved breath and allowed the tension to seep from every muscle as Edward worked over my shoulder. He coated the bite with venom, massaged the edges of the wound together, and repeated his actions until there was no sting left.

"Now your arm," he said, moving in front of me. I raised my right arm and helped push the sleeve up past my elbow. He studied the bite, just below my elbow, and then lowered his mouth onto it, his eyes meeting mine as he sucked. They were still black with thirst. He straightened up abruptly and removed something from his mouth. "How did you get tree bark inside the wound?"

I chuckled. "Well, someone _did_ throw me against a tree, though that was before the bite, I think. It must have happened when we were wrestling on the ground," I said lightly. He glowered. He returned his mouth to the wound, his eyes dark and worried. "Edward, I was joking. You shouldn't feel bad about this." He spit again, and returned his mouth to the wound, running his tongue along the curve of the bite, and not meeting my eyes. I sighed, and my euphoria and relief darkened into a more somber mood as I realized that I was just beginning to see the fallout from this day. Our physical wounds could be healed within a half hour, and I was already over the entire episode, but Edward was clearly suffering. I studied him as he worked the wound over. His brow was furrowed, and he continued to look anywhere but at me.

"Edward…" I started.

"Flex your wrist," he interrupted. He studied the wound, rubbing his fingers over it as I silently complied, and then lowered his mouth again. I felt no warmth this time. He stood abruptly. "Try it now."

I rotated my wrist and bent my elbow. "It feels good. Thank you, Edward," I smiled at him, but knew it did not reach my eyes, or my heart — I was too worried about him. He nodded curtly, but said nothing. I sighed and looked around; darkness had fallen, and the light of the quarter moon painted the snow with a faint blue. I needed to get Edward fed before we tried to talk about this; his reactions at the moment seemed far too pessimistic to be productive. He glared at me as he heard my reflection, and I debated whether it would be easier on him if I started blocking my thoughts again.

"Not the reel!" he said suddenly, eyes wide. "Block me or don't, that's your choice, but please… I never want to hear that blasted reel again." His hands were raised in surrender.

I chuckled, looking at the ground. "Don't worry, neither do I. It was bad enough in 1665!" I looked up at him; at least he was meeting my eyes again. I stepped toward him tentatively, and noticed that he rocked back on his heels and looked away, as if he were contemplating stepping back. I paused, but then the expression on his face drew me in. It was the same as it had been in the lake. It was subdued now, but the same: muted, quiet anguish. I walked to him and placed my hand on the nape of his neck; I looked him in the eyes, waiting for his to meet mine. _Edward…_ He took a steadying breath and looked into my face. "I think, with everything we've been through, I'd rather _not_ block you right now. I'd rather… well, I'd rather not keep you out. But if I'm going to leave my thoughts open to you, I'd appreciate it if you would _try_ not to resent them." His mouth formed a grim line, but he nodded. "Thank you." I looked over my shoulder, to the west, and took a deep breath. Looking back at Edward I asked, "Do you want to go after the herd? They've moved west… we'd be up wind, so we might spook them, but the breeze has died down… we might be okay."

"Whatever you think is best…I just need something soon… _really soon,_ Carlisle…"

"Okay," I clapped his shoulder. "Follow me."

I ran west, following the old trail of the deer. We were hours behind them, and the fresh snow obscured part of their trail, but with the air so still we were unlikely to find another scent quickly. I could hear Edward running at my right and a few strides behind me. I wished, as I so often did, that I could share his gift, hear his thoughts.

"Trust me, you don't," he said as he ran, catching up so we were side by side.

_At least I would understand why you're so upset. We're fine, Edward! And the hunters are too. They even have a scary story to tell back at the public house…_

I saw him shake his head out of the corner of my eye.

_You did nothing wrong. You're still so young, you're…wait. Did you smell that? _

I stopped and turned to my left. A new scent was drifting down the side of the valley.

_This way._ I led him up the hill. At its crest, the wind from the south carried the scent of moose… and mountain lion.

_You take the lion, but try not to scare the herd off too far…you need several kills tonight. I'll take one of the…_

"Carlisle," he interrupted. I was crouched and ready to stalk, but when I looked at him, he just stood with his arms crossed on his chest, a nearly frantic look on his face. His eyes were so dark, and his thirst was written all over his face, but he held his body back, stiffly. "Go check, please…" he whispered.

"Edward?" I whispered back.

"Go to the bottom of the hill and see if the wind changes… see if it's safe…" He whispered so softly I had to strain to hear.

I looked back down the hill, nodding. _All right. All right, Edward… you stay here until I check. _He was terrified. I moved stealthily to the bottom of the hill. The wind shifted slightly, but there were no new scents. Of course there weren't. It was dark. No humans would be out here now. But Edward was spooked, and I needed to reassure him. _All's clear. Come down to my right, the cat is that way._ He ignored that, and was by my side in a minute. I studied him carefully. _Are you holding your breath?_

He let the breath out and looked at me sheepishly. "I was monitoring the scents through your mind. It makes them muted…"

"Edward. It's safe. Go kill your cat," I said in an exasperated whisper. Was he really this shaken? He hadn't been this insecure on his first day… He gave me a hurt look and stalked after it. He was taking this so hard. I needed to empathize more, but I just couldn't understand why he was so upset. We were fine…

I quickly killed a moose and then doubled back to find Edward. I passed the drained and discarded carcass of the mountain lion, and caught his scent further along. I caught up to him as he downed a moose.

_Is that your second kill?_

He continued drinking and held up three fingers.

_Your third? Good. You needed it. _

I sat back against a tree as he finished his meal. He eventually came over and sat by me, his eyes much lighter. They were already losing some of their red, shifting toward vermillion.

"Better?"

"A bit. The thirst is gone at least."

"Ready to head home?"

"Slowly… I feel sloshy."

I laughed. "A gentle jog, then." He sat next to me. His face troubled.

_Do you want to talk now, or later?_

He sighed. "Later… mostly. But for now… I'm so sorry, Carlisle."

"Edward, stop; it's nothing you need…"

"DON'T! Don't act like the fact that I attacked my _only_ friend is acceptable. Don't act like the fact that I failed my first real test with a human scent on the air isn't disappointing to you. Don't act like _nothing_ happened!"

I froze, shocked.

"You're upset that you attacked me? _Of course_ you attacked me, Edward! I placed myself between you and your prey!"

"They shouldn't have been my prey, Carlisle!"

"Any newborn would have gone after them, Edward. You expect too much of yourself."

He shook his head. "No. You forget, Carlisle, I can see your thoughts… all your trips down memory lane. You've thought of your first months a lot since I've been here. And you _never_ would have made that mistake. _Never._ And I nearly took your head off!"

I scoffed. "Edward, please… give me a little credit. At no time was I in danger of losing my head."

He looked away, struggling with his anger. "You are missing the point, Carlisle!"

"I did you _much_ more damage," I continued, "I should be apologizing to you."

He scowled. "Nothing you did to me would have been necessary if I hadn't _attacked_ you, Carlisle. This was _my_ nearly fatal mistake, and you refuse to acknowledge it."

"Edward, you're overreacting…"

He raised his hand and jumped to his feet, abruptly cutting me off. I froze and watched him as he closed his eyes and struggled to control his temper. His free hand pinched the bridge of his nose, as though my reassurances were giving him a headache. After a moment he dropped both arms to his side and gave me the most defeated, resigned look I'd ever seen on his face. A cold fear settled over me, weighing me down.

"Let's go home, Carlisle," he said quietly, dismissing any hope of conversation. He walked to the southeast, and I turned as he passed me, frozen in place. In the past those words had elicited such elation in me. Now as I watched him walk away from me through the snow, his tattered shirt marking him as battle worn, I felt only dread. I was losing him…


	11. Chapter 11

_AN: Thanks as ever to my awesome beta, Coleen561, who actually assigned me homework this chapter so I would get the timeline right. Any time I try to cheat or be vague, she calls me out; it's great!_

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CPOV

Our run back from Minnesota was quiet. We arrived at the house shortly before dawn; the water we'd been drenched with had long since frozen and sublimated off us. Edward expelled the breath he'd been holding as we approached the city, and told me to go inside.

"You bathe first, Carlisle. I'll bring some more wood in and make a fire."

I thought nothing of it. I was grateful to come downstairs later, clean and dry, to find our shoes propped up on the hearth, drying. He'd scooted my chair close to the roaring fire, and it was waiting for me, heated and welcoming with my book sitting on the cushion. I thanked him warmly and saw him nod his head as he climbed the stairs for his own bath. I settled into reading my book, thinking he was getting over his umbrage. I should have known better. He came down a half hour later, washed and in clean clothes and bare feet. I'd thought he was going to sit in the other chair… join me as he so often did. But instead he approached the fireplace and threw all our clothes from the night before onto the blaze. He stood and watched the wool smoke and the flame change color as the mineral dyes in the fabrics were consumed. He stared into the flames until the clothing had withered to tan ash, and then he turned and walked into the music room. I just stared after him, dread filling the pit of my stomach again.

He spent that day, and the next, sitting at his desk, looking out the window. Everything about his posture... the way his hands were spread and pressed flat against the top of his desk, the hunch in his shoulders, the furrow in his brow… it all forbade approach. I would go to the doorway to check on him, and see only his eyes move in my direction. The rest of his body seemed poised for flight, only relaxing slightly as I backed away. I left him completely alone that first day, even trying to keep my thoughts quiet, since my assurances in the forest had only served to upset him. He came out of the music room four times: thrice to stoke the fire or bring in more wood, once, after dark, to hunt. On the afternoon of the second day, I tried with more determination to approach him.

I drew near the doorway. "Edward..."

"Not yet," was all he said, eyes still gazing at the stream outside.

"But Edward…"

"Not yet!" He turned to me and the pain on his face stopped me in my place. I couldn't force myself on him. He was a private man. I understood this; I was one too. I sighed and retreated to my study, allowing the fire in the parlor to die down. If he wanted to be alone to process his thoughts, I'd respect that, though it didn't seem like what he truly needed. I picked up the Odyssey, knowing he liked it when I read in a language he didn't understand. I wistfully yearned for Athena to visit me, as she had Odysseus, to help _me_ navigate the intricacies of life with my son… well, my Edward. I would heed her wisdom more than Odysseus had. Edward was obviously trying to come to terms with what had happened in the forest, but I wished he'd talk to me about it, understand that I wasn't disappointed, and realize that such minor slips were to be expected. I heard him snort in the other room.

I was still unsure as to the exact nature of the problem, but that it was serious I no longer doubted. I hated this. I hated that we'd shifted so quickly from a comfortable existence filled with music and conversation and laughter to one where I was afraid to say or _think_ anything for fear of alienating him further. What was the problem? Was I not offering enough support and acceptance? Was he in shock? Until he was willing to talk to me, there was little I could do. The silence in the house was deafening and oppressive, and I avoided even making those sounds that I'd once used to fend off Solitude, for fear of annoying him. We were both prisoners of his silence.

The house grew dark and cold again, but it fit my mood; I did nothing to alter the impending gloom, though I wished it away. Finally, I heard him move into the parlor. He re-lit the fire, moved the chairs closer to the hearth, and then left the house. I heard chopping, and then he came in and piled more wood next to the fireplace. He went back into the music room, and I expected that would be the extent of his activity for the next several hours. But instead I heard the piano bench being pulled out, and the soft notes of Bach began drifting through the house. It was the Air in D major… one of the first pieces of music I'd brought home for him after acquiring the piano. It was melancholy, but soothing.

_Thank you, Edward._

I moved to my chair in the parlor, staying out of sight near the fireplace, rather than moving to the sofa where I normally watched him play. This music seemed to be his way of offering a gentle truce, and I didn't want to overstep my part. The parlor was neutral territory between our rooms, but the sofa, while technically in the parlor, had such a broad view of the music room it felt intrusive. I wanted to meet him in the middle, if he were willing. He continued to play for a few hours — all pieces that he'd played many times, mostly Bach and Beethoven. Then he closed the piano up and came to stand behind his chair by the fireplace. He made no move to sit. I looked up at him, trying to decipher the emotions behind his expression. Resignation. Hurt.

"Thank you for playing, Edward."

"You're welcome."

I started to speak again, but he left the room abruptly and went upstairs to his room, closing the door quietly, leaving me in the wake of his silence again.

Days slipped by, and all that had been shimmering and bright in my life faded to gray. It was not as black as it had once been, perhaps, but I'd become so accustomed to the glistening colors of Edward's moods — his laughter and his challenges — that the gray fog which had descended on him and enveloped me left me cold and hopeless. I could not find my way to him, and he was offering no light to help me. Every attempt I made to gently pull him from his silence made him bolt away from me and hover on the periphery, just outside my reach. He never left me, but he wouldn't allow me to approach him. He wouldn't allow me to show him any kindness. It felt almost as though he were in mourning again, but this time, I didn't know for whom.

We went out every night to hunt in silence. Days were spent in the house, circling each other at a distance. The fifth day after the hunt he convinced me that I should get the mail, though I expect he just wanted time away from my fretful thoughts.

He wasn't fighting with me; he wasn't argumentative or teasing. He was barely speaking, but he exuded a guarded sadness and disappointment. How much was directed at himself, and how much was directed at me, I couldn't be sure. I suspected some of both. His eyes, when he allowed me to see them, were haunted and bleak.

He was not belligerent, quite the contrary. He was so… so _accommodating_… despite his obvious unhappiness; it was heart breaking to behold. He wouldn't speak about anything that mattered, but in every other way, he was trying to address my needs, almost before I registered them myself. If I so much as thought that the room was getting darker, or colder, he would stoke the fire. If I despaired of the silence, or a piece of music crossed my mind, he would sit at the piano or play the gramophone. If I felt lost in my solitude, he'd come down with a book and pretend to read in the next room… never too close, but close enough to offer some restrained comfort. It actually took me a while to notice the pattern. I was so wrapped up in what he wouldn't say that I didn't notice what he was _doing_.

All his quiet attention was soothing in its way, but it felt oddly superficial. As warm as the room felt because of his fire, cold still lingered in my stomach and heart. While the gramophone music banished the silence, I would have rather heard what was going through Edward's mind. He was being kind, but it was too much… and not enough; it was compliance to unasked requests, and refusal of the asked ones. I didn't want him to be this… I didn't want him docile and appeasing and distant. I missed his passion, his challenging remarks, his teasing. All I wanted was for him to be himself: and this he was unwilling to do. As kind as some of his actions were, I could sense he was seething and roiling just below the surface, and not allowing me to see any of it. This was the uneasy calm before the storm. I wanted the tempest already.

As concerned as I was that he was taking what had happened during the hunt too hard, there was something else going on, and that worried me much more. The pattern I'd been watching for weeks was growing worse. He'd played no new sheet music since we got back from Minnesota, and the list of composers he avoided was growing longer… It seemed to focus on his father's favorites. He'd play them on the gramophone, but not the piano, and I didn't understand why. What had changed for him such that he no longer wanted to _play _these beautiful pieces_,_ he only wanted to _hear_ them? I knew they were among his favorites, but he was essentially holding them at arm's length. It seemed a much more insidious problem than his lack of control when the scent of blood was on the air. He was giving up part of who he was, setting those composers aside… lessening himself and his potential joy. And it had accelerated since the incident — as if the two issues were somehow related — although the avoidance of certain composers had predated that disastrous hunting trip.

The early hours of the next morning found me in the attic, reviewing details of the proposed estate auction from Mr. Campbell. A shadow passed across the open window, and I looked up to see Edward cross the room and sit in the chair across the desk.

"Good morning, Edward," I offered cautiously.

"Carlisle," he answered, nodding. After a few moments of hesitation, he asked, "Which of these tomes on estate and corporate tax law do you think I should start with?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Which word didn't you understand?" he asked, smirking a bit.

I looked at the shelves behind me, and then back at him. "I thought you weren't interested. Why the sudden change of heart?" My mind was contemplating the significance of his request. Perhaps he wanted to wean himself of my involvement. It was obvious how unhappy he was.

He looked away and sighed. "This isn't about me leaving any earlier than we've discussed. I think I've made it abundantly clear recently that I'm not capable of being on my own," he said with a scowl. "This isn't about me leaving at all. This is about me not being such a burden to you, and taking responsibility for my own affairs. You've been wanting to explain this stuff," he gestured to the room, "for ages." That was an overstatement, but I saw his point.

I reached for a book on the top shelf. "Start with this one. It's a good overview, and will define the terms in the paperwork I'm having drawn up by Misters Campbell and Jackson." I handed him the book. "Once you've finished, I can go over the letters and paperwork that pertain to your estate with you."

"Thanks, Carlisle." He took the book, and turned it over in his hand for a moment, thinking. Then he got up and moved to the window.

"Edward, wait. I'd like to talk to you about… about what happened in the forest, and how it's affected you since."

He turned to me slowly. "_Now_ you want to talk? I thought you were the one who wanted to pretend nothing happened."

"Nothing of significance _did_ happen in the woods," I said. He glowered and I quickly continued, "But that's obviously not your view of things, and I'd like it if we could talk about it openly rather than continue to avoid it." _And each other_.

I watched him consider my request. I realized I'd made a mistake, letting him be on his own so long, letting this fester.

"Maybe later. I'll go get some more wood; it's going to be another cold day. The temperature fluctuations are bad for the piano. It's been hard enough to keep it in tune."

"There's plenty of wood, Edward. And I'm fairly certain it's my turn to bring it in. Please sit down."

He hesitated, but then took a step back. "No, I'll bring some in. _That_ I'm capable of. And then I think I'll go for a quick run. I'll hold my breath," he assured me quickly. He was out the window before I could protest.

'_That I'm capable of'… _I rolled his words over in my mind. So, he was dwelling on what he _wasn't_ capable of then? I sighed and ran my hand through my hair, trying to understand his vague, infrequent words. The way he was avoiding me was bordering on ridiculous. Indecision weighed on my frozen body for a moment, and then I leapt out the window, following the sounds of him chopping. The axe hung in midair for a fraction of a second as he sensed my approach, and then sliced heavily through the log. He turned to face me as he took an armful of wood.

"We need to talk about this, Edward."

He hesitated, and then started walking back toward the house. "Okay," he said, but he didn't stop moving, and I was forced to follow behind him. He stomped the snow off his feet before entering the house again. He crouched by the hearth and started stacking logs in an open pattern. I knelt beside him and spread kindling under his stack. We sat there, shoulder to shoulder as I took the matches and lit the fire, gently coaxing the tiny licks of flame as I also tried to coax words from Edward.

"What happened in the forest…" I began, "it was perfectly natural, Edward." His eyes momentarily grew large, as though he were taking issue with the word 'natural'. "I'm in no way disappointed in you."

He looked away for a moment, tension visible through his whole body. Then he sighed, relaxed, and faced me. "I know you're not," he said sadly.

I was taken aback. "You do?"

"Yes," he said, sitting back on his heels, tapping his temple and looking at me meaningfully.

"Oh… well then…" Edward tilted his head and looked at me with an expression I'd rarely seen on his face, but I _knew_ it. It conveyed the emotions I felt when I was explaining something that I thought was _patently_ obvious, usually to a colleague in the hospital: exasperated patience.

"So, the problem is that I'm _not_ disappointed in you?" I asked, incredulously.

"_One_ of the problems is that you are not disappointed in me." He stood and ran his hand through his hair. "Look, Carlisle, I'm just… I'm having some difficulty accepting the ramifications of what I've become."

"A vampire?" I thought we'd covered this territory months ago.

"That's one word for it, I suppose," he uttered under his breath.

I stood and faced him as the fire grew stronger. "What _ramifications_ do you mean, exactly?"

"The ones that include me attacking my only friend, seemingly without choice, hunting humans, seemingly without choice… I'm not like you were; I have no control at all. I'm… I'm…" His eyes clenched. Whatever it was, he couldn't bring himself to say it.

I paused, watching his face carefully. "You can't use _my_ newborn experience as a gauge of typical control. I assure you, I'm _not_ typical. I'm actually considered something of a freak. I've watched many newborns while with the Volturi, and my experience was… not at all like theirs. You are doing very well…" He scowled and I stumbled over my words. "Edward, truly, you are."

He sighed and looked at his hands.

"Edward, I'm not disappointed."

"Only because you expect so little of me!" The emptiness in his eyes was haunting.

"_What_?"

"You expect nothing of me, so how can I disappoint you? You refuse to acknowledge that I've made a mistake, so how can I apologize for it, or atone? You just want me to ignore it, and that's the one thing that feels _impossible_ to do. You won't even tell me what I did wrong. I have no reason to think I won't react in exactly the same way every time blood is on the air, and that's a terrible thought."

He was angry. Not just at himself, but at me.

"Edward, you can't possibly believe I think so… so _meanly_ of you. I think the world of you! I have every intention of teaching you control… _when_ you're ready." He looked away, seething with frustration. "Before that, it will only serve to frustrate and intimidate you. It's mid December; you're only eleven weeks old. There's no point in putting you through that until you're at least a few months old. You must see that…"

"I see that I'm unworthy of being _taught_ what you were able to do without any help. I'm fundamentally different… _less_… than you were at my age."

"Edward, that's ridiculous! We're no diff…" He put up both hands, cutting me off, and heading to the door.

"I'm going for a run, Carlisle. I'll hold my breath so I pose no threat, but I'd rather be alone now if you're going to insist on calling me ridiculous."

"WAIT, wait! You're right."

He stopped in the doorway, the muscles of his shoulders clenching as he held his hands on the doorframe.

"I apologize," I said. "You're right. That's not productive." I ran my hand through my hair, cursing my inability to communicate with him. Why was this so hard? I just didn't want him to worry, but I was obviously going about that in the wrong way. I hadn't realized just how much he'd lost in the forest. How much _I'd_ taken from him by refusing to acknowledge the error. He didn't have my centuries of experience to afford perspective. He'd been lost in his self doubt for so long… He didn't want reassurances; he wanted a plan. He didn't need _my_ faith in him, he needed to renew his faith in himself.

He turned slowly in the doorframe, watching my face.

"Please come sit down, Edward. You're right; it's not ridiculous. We obviously have different strengths and weaknesses. I just don't want you to make too much of what you perceive as a failing. Your control is very much in keeping with other newborns… better actually. I've been fairly amazed that I haven't had to intervene before this. You are uncommonly even-keeled for a newborn…" He rolled his eyes and I felt immense relief at the familiar expression. "It's true. So much so that I'm afraid I forget how much you are struggling with this. I'm sorry."

He clenched his eyes, struggling with his frustration. "Why do _you_ get to apologize?"

"I'm apologizing for a real offense…"

"My failure wasn't _real_ enough for you?" he sneered.

I sighed, discouraged that he again thought I wasn't taking his concerns seriously enough. "Please sit down. I'm trying, Edward. Please give me the chance to explain."

He made his way heavily to his chair and sat, his face challenging me. Well, it was better than his avoidance.

"I haven't wanted to show you those other newborns in my memory, because I didn't want you to become desensitized to the deaths and the feeding, but perhaps I should." I allowed flashes of memory fill my mind; countless ravenous newborns. Edward winced.

"I don't think that's helpful," he panted, his face contorted against the vision. I stopped immediately. "So that's it? You think I'm like them? No better than _them_?"

"No, you _are_ better than they were. When you are in your right mind, you have control. When I come home from town, you never react to the fact that my clothes reek like humans. When you heard the truck coming up the road the first time, you hid and held your breath rather than risk the life of a human. You fight it well, Edward. It was just too much that night. You were too thirsty. You'd already turned yourself over to your hunting instincts. And the scent of humans weighed too heavily on the breeze. Everything was stacked against you."

"It could happen again."

"And if it does, I'll protect you again!"

"What, forever? Is that what you want for your life? To baby sit me forever?"

Now I was getting angry. "It won't take forever, Edward," I scoffed. "Your control might not be what you wish it were, and it might not be what mine was — though I take some issue with that — but it _has_ improved. Your eyes shift toward orange every day, and in another six weeks or so they will look much like mine. I'd intended to wait until then to start your training, but we'll start earlier if you want.

"But, yes," I continued, "for as long as you need me to protect you, I will! That's what I agreed to, and that's what I'll do. And it's not a burden, Edward," I added as he snorted. "Well, at the _moment_ it's a bit of a burden, but normally it's a joy. It's a JOY to have you as my...in my life."

"And how does that work, exactly, Carlisle? How is it that you allow yourself to think of me as a son, but _refuse_ to act like a father?"

My eyes widened as my mind filled with interactions between my father and me, things I never wanted to relive…

"Oh for Christ's sake, Carlisle! I'm not asking you to beat the crap out of me. You've already done that…" There was just a hint of his smirk as he said it, but there was a fury in his eyes that built as he continued. "I'm asking you to help me own up to my mistakes, and find a way to avoid the same ones in the future. My father would have _never_ let me off the hook so easily after attacking him verbally, much less physically, and neither would any teacher I've ever had. You're too easy on me. You just coddle me and give me presents, and you don't expect _anything_ of me! You don't even expect me to speak respectfully to you. Are you really so afraid of me leaving, so afraid of being alone again, that you would keep me _helpless_ and placated just so I'll stay?"

I gasped. He was just being cruel now… lashing out at me with my greatest fears to get a rise. Perhaps he was right; perhaps I needed to be less doting and more strict with him, though obviously my father's techniques were out of the question. And the truth was I would never force him to speak to me respectfully. If I earned his respect, he'd speak to me that way. If, as was currently the case, he did _not_ respect my actions, it was better for both of us that he say — and I hear — whatever it was he saw as the problem. The mere fact that he would tell me of problems he perceived was an act of respect in itself. As for his teasing and 'old man' comments, I'd always seen them as more affectionate than disrespectful… and I missed them now that our relationship was so strained. Strained not by his failure, but from _mine_. For that is truly what had happened. I had failed him in the way I reacted after the incident. I'd worked so hard to protect him from his sense of guilt, that I'd failed to protect his dignity, and now it was quite wounded. I'd made him feel infantile, incompetent, and worthless. I didn't even give him an opportunity to redeem himself, though I now saw that every fire built and every song played for my comfort had been an attempt at just that. I fueled his self doubt, and now it seemed he was doubting everything: his strength, his tie to me, his tie to music, his worth, the remnants of his human nature, his very spirit… And then something clicked in my mind, and I cocked my head to study his expression, realizing that these problems ran _much deeper_ than I'd realized. He fidgeted under the strength of my gaze and the train of my thoughts.

"You are not helpless, Edward. Far from it. And any gifts I've given you have been offered out of affection and a desire for you to be comfortable while you live with me. They were never _bribes_ to placate you." To his credit, he looked rather ashamed. I scrubbed my face with my hand and then raked my fingers through my hair, feeling at once overwhelmed and sobered by all I needed to set right. But I needed a chance to think about what he'd said, and how it fit together with my other observations.

"I need some privacy with my thoughts," I said, almost apologetically. "I'm going for a short run." He looked slightly panicked. "I promise I'll consider everything you've said carefully. I'm done ignoring your concerns. I'm very sorry for leaving you alone with your worries for so long. It was unpardonable, and caused you unnecessary pain." I looked at the fire briefly before returning my eyes to his. "It won't happen again, Edward." He studied my face, and then nodded. I clapped his shoulder gently, saying, "I'll be back soon." I offered him what I hoped was a reassuring smile, and left the warmth of the house, heading north into the forest.

EPOV

Standing in the doorway, watching him disappear from view, I realized what a rare sight it was to see Carlisle fleeing _my_ presence. He went into town to run errands every few days, but that was not solely for the purpose of avoiding me. _I_ was the one who had been keeping us apart, keeping him at arm's length since we'd returned. Suddenly I longed to feel his hand on the nape of my neck, his eyes reassuring mine with understanding and compassion.

I'd actually made him _angry_, if only for a moment. I'd never seen him angry before. Hurt, concerned, defensive… but never angry. I hugged my arms around myself and backed into the parlor, closing the door. I looked around the house feeling lost. I'd upset him so much that his accent was more pronounced… a mixture of British and French and Italian lilts. That only rarely happened.

I considered playing a record on the gramophone… to soothe the savage beast that was me. The piano was absolutely out of the question, if I was looking for comfort. Sitting at the piano became more uncomfortable almost each time I tried to play. In the end I decided to just sit in my chair, across from Carlisle's, and watch the fire. The crackling was at once soothing and rife with energy. I felt like I was crackling inside, waiting.

I missed his thoughts. As irritating as it was that he had refused to take my apologies seriously, his thoughts were still more comforting than my own. I'd accused him of finding me unworthy of his tutelage, but I knew it was a lie. Carlisle found me _too_ worthy. He was wrong about me. I was becoming the worst type of monster. As my human memories faded, I was nearing the point where I no longer recognized myself. Still unable to resist blood, newly unable to resist attacking Carlisle, and increasingly unable to _feel_ enough to play with even a modicum of sincerity. Now that I had yelled at him, finally expressed everything that had been building for days, I felt empty and exhausted. I was slipping into a black despair, and without him here, without his thoughts grounding me, my mind felt as dangerous as quicksand.

I longed for the easy camaraderie we'd shared before I sensed that my humanity was truly slipping away. Now I felt as though I were losing not only my first family, but Carlisle as well. The more he insisted there was nothing wrong, the more distant I felt from him. How could he even pretend that was true? My perfect memory recalled every snarl, every insult I'd thrown at him, every lunge, every time my teeth sank into his flesh and I heard it tear. _That _sound haunted me like dissonant chords, overpowering any other notes I played. He _had_ to let me make it up to him. We _had_ to get back to a point where we could trust and talk to each other, or I didn't think I would survive my immortality.

I felt so torn: angry with myself, angry with him. And lost… so lost. I put another log on the fire as I waited, hoping the warmth would sink down to my core and relieve this sense of dread. I curled my legs up into the chair with me, hugging my knees in tight. Staring into the flames, I started to hear music, and glanced at the gramophone before realizing that it was Carlisle's thoughts; he was on his way home. I took a deep stabilizing breath.

In a moment he was through the door, brushing the snow out of his hair and peeling off his sweater to hang by the fire.

"I'll just change and be right down Edward." I nodded and continued to wait. In moments he was downstairs in dry clothes and sitting in the other chair, his mind still full of music.

He looked in my eyes for a moment, noting the color, and said, "I hadn't intended to start yet, but I think perhaps you are right, and we should begin working on your control sooner than I'd planned. I need to get some things from town. Depending on what I find, we might start as early as tomorrow, but if not, it will be in a few days. Is this agreeable to you?"

I nodded.

"Good. I want you to understand that we'll be taking things slowly, and because we are starting before your eyes are clear, you will likely have… setbacks. I want you to try to keep things in perspective, and not get too discouraged."

I snorted and looked down at my hands. I was in a near constant state of discouragement lately. But Carlisle was right, thinking negatively would not help my efforts.

"I'll try," I agreed.

"Good."

I waited for him to continue, to tell me my consequences for attacking him. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at his hands, stalling.

"And the attack?" I asked. "Are you going to discipline me for attacking you?"

"No, Edward, I can't punish you for following your instincts… instincts _I'm_ responsible for you having in the first place. But I'll allow you to atone for your actions if it will make you feel better."

"What do you mean?"

"You can do something for me. Something that I think will ultimately help you." I looked in his mind to see what he was getting at, but he was remembering another concert; a relatively recent one, judging from what the audience was wearing.

"Anything," I finally whispered, relieved he was offering me this chance.

"Oh…do not agree so easily," he said darkly. "You are not going to like it."

I still couldn't see his intentions; the piano music from his memory was drowning everything else out. But really, it didn't matter. I felt so terrible, I would do anything to make it up to him… and I trusted that he would never ask me to do something that would harm me, it was just going to be unpleasant… a chore of some sort.

"Anything," I repeated.

"Play Chopin."

I realized that the concert in his head _was_ Chopin — the maestro himself. It was wonderful… painfully passionate and beautiful. I knew I wasn't capable.

"Anything but that," I spat.

"That is what I require. You asked for atonement and that is my one and only demand. Play Chopin."

"I have played it."

"No you haven't."

"I have, four weeks ago…"

"Oh, it was played…" he said, almost condescendingly. "The notes on the page became sound waves in our home, but _you _did not play it — there was none of _you_ in it. It sounded like…"

"…a player piano." I finished for him. I stood, agitated. His eyes softened somewhat, and he said nothing, but I heard the agreement in his thoughts. My face distorted in pain at the truth I'd been hiding from.

"I can't…"

"Why not? You play Mozart, and Bach... Chopin is one of your favorites; you told me how you loved to hear your father play Chopin, how beautifully he played it. You can't possibly see yourself less able to play than your human father. It's a link to your parents… you _need_ to play it, Edward."

"I _can't_!" I screamed.

"You must!"

"You need a soul to play Chopin!" I sobbed. "You need a soul for it, or it doesn't sound right. I don't want to hear it like that — mechanical and lifeless — I won't subject those exquisite compositions to my pedantic and precise fingers. They deserve better than that! They deserve better than me!"

Warmth and conviction flooded Carlisle's eyes, and he walked over to me slowly, considering my words. I'd confirmed his suspicions. He saw this as the crux of everything I was struggling with. I was afraid for a moment that he was going to embrace me, but he just placed each of his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to face him.

"Edward, you are the most passionate man I've ever had the privilege of calling a friend. I realize you believe I've taken your soul, but I look at you, and I _know_ it can't be true. It just can't. You are more than the sum of your instincts, Edward; more than your thirst for blood and your meticulously swift fingers. You feel pain and doubt! You suffer anguish, Edward, I _see_ it. So use it! Make something beautiful with it. Channel it so it can't consume you. If you allow yourself to feel faith in your own heart, _I_ believe you'll do more justice to Chopin than any other I've heard. _I _have faith in you."

"Your faith is blind!" I spat.

"No, it's not. I see you, Edward."

I glared at him, but his face was impassive again. "Don't ask this of me. This is not atonement. This is punishment! Making me hear Chopin like that is a _punishment_. Making me responsible for producing that lifeless drivel is _torture_. You are following in your father's footsteps." It was the worst thing I could think to say to him, and I saw him flinch as I heard his internal _no!_ I caught a bit more internal dialog, before the Chopin concert regained the foreground of his mind. He dropped his arms, wondering if he were being as brutal as I suggested, and decided that this was for my own benefit.

"The simple answer, then, is don't produce lifeless drivel. You asked me to be firm, to offer you a correction. You asked me to find a way out of this morass you are in. This is what I deem necessary. Do it, or don't do it, but don't ask me to play this role if you won't trust my judgment." He flexed his hands stiffly at his sides, struggling to control his emotions. "I need to go to town. You stay in the house." It was not a request. He was angry again; angrier now than when we started. He could forgive me my potentially deadly weakness when blood was on the air, but he could not forgive me seeing less in myself than he saw in me. And I was too angry to be touched by this _entirely_ paternal sentiment, and frustrated that my efforts to make things better between us had actually made things much, much worse. I stormed up to my room, and I heard the front door slam just as I slammed my own door.

* * *

_AN: Boys, boys, boys, do we really need to slam doors? Sorry everyone, it's going to be painful personal growth for a few chapters… the piano honeymoon was fun, but it couldn't last._

_If you want to know where I am in writing future chapters, chat about the characters, etc. you can follow me on Twitter at ATONAU. I usually mention something as I'm writing, and give previews. I'd love to hear from you there or here. And reviews are like Chopin…good for the soul._


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N I'm very grateful that Prelude has been nominated in both the Inspired Fan Fic Awards, and The Vampies. If you are inclined to vote in either, direct links can be found on my profile.**

**I've also added all the music I've ever mentioned by name in Prelude to my profile, by chapter. I've included links to videos so you can listen as you read, if you wish. I'll be doing some housekeeping on the story in the next few days, putting the Thanksgiving Outtake in chronological order with the rest of the story, and adding music links to the author's notes.**

**As always, I'm eternally grateful to my fab beta Coleen561, who's not afraid to tell me when my meaning is just not coming across. Also, Zoya Zalan was an invaluable resource for this chapter. She and I have discussed a fair amount of Chopin lately, and her recommendation of the Revolution Etude was perfect for Edward's angsty trial. It will figure prominently in the chapter, so if you want to listen to it in all its brooding emo glory while you read, www . youtube . com/ watch?v=Tt8AQKFkYBk&feature=related. Yum.**

CPOV

I heard his bedroom door slam as I swung the front door closed hard behind me, pulling my coat on and dashing down the porch steps. My destination was the hospital, so that I could make good on my promise to train him on control, but I couldn't go there yet. I was far too angry to head immediately toward town, too angry to be near thinking and feeling creatures, be they human or vampire. So I ran north first, irritated that I'd barely been home ten minutes since my last run. _That_ trip had felt like an epiphany, every strange behavior of Edward's falling into place in my mind, linking together like a puzzle until I'd felt sure that I knew the problem, and knew the solution. When I'd gone home and confronted him, he confirmed my suspicion, confirmed that he felt his soul was gone, and he was no longer whole. I'd actually felt _proud_ that I'd worked out the truth. I felt proud that I knew him well enough, could observe him closely enough, that I could discern what he chose not to say. But I was not proud now. His reaction to my solution had filled me with anger and doubt. I'd known he'd resist, but I was not prepared for his spitefulness. I pounded the snowy ground with my feet, the trees with my fists, and the very air with my angry breaths. His cruel words bit through me from within, and my gut writhed in pain. But they were not the _real_ source of my anguish. No, the real source was the _truth_ in what he'd said.

Dim memories of my father flitted across my mind. I could hear his switch cutting the air before it struck my hands; the same sound the branches made as I pushed past and they sprung back in my wake. I could remember blurry vision from a swollen eye. I could no longer remember any of his pitiless words, but I could remember the tone and inflection: disappointment, shame, arrogance. I remembered despairing of _ever_ pleasing him, of ever seeing his brow unfurrowed or the shadow lift from his eyes. I remembered hopelessness. Did I really inspire the same hopelessness in Edward? I'd left him for days to suffer his pain alone, incognizant of its depth or source. I had not been intentionally cruel, but I'd been cruel nonetheless. It pained me to realize the inadvertent grief I'd caused him.

Ahhh. My hubris. It was truly astounding. It would be my torment, and Edward's too. I had considered him a son almost from the moment that he opened his crimson eyes and said, "It's you." The words had seemed like so much more than a mere recognition of a stranger from a hazy memory of an unpleasant hospital ward. They had seemed to represent a much more fundamental recognition. The recognition _I'd_ felt: the recognition of family.

But as Edward was always so quick to tell me, he'd had a family. He'd had a father, and a good one. Edward's integrity and passion, and even humor, I suspected, were direct products of his upbringing. He may have thought his father rather hard at times, but Edward Sr. had been able to instill in Edward a self-assurance befitting a young man on the brink of adulthood. Even in those few days I'd observed the Masens in the hospital before Edward Sr. became unconscious and Edward became delirious, the bonds between them were clear. I had no experience with such a bond. My attempts so far at guiding him when it really mattered had fallen painfully short. He was losing his confidence, and it was agonizing to witness — worse was knowing that I was responsible for it.

I was failing him in such a profound way. His bitter words haunted me. _And how does that work, exactly, Carlisle? How is it that you allow yourself to think of me as a son, but __**refuse**__ to act like a father?_ Edward was right to confront my presumption of considering him a son. It was outrageous, as I looked back on it. It was like taking all the credit for the wonderful young man he was, without having to do any of the work to guide him. And it had been constant, to his ever-hearing mind. It must have been infuriating for him. I would do better. He was my ward, my apprentice of sorts. He was there so I could teach him. If we were becoming friends, that was so much the better. Friendship I would have to earn; it couldn't be assumed. Any aspiration for a closer relationship was just the hopeful musings of an old and lonely mind, and not appropriate to share with a young man already dealing with so much. I'd been so unfair to him, letting my need for a family outweigh his needs. And now everything was confused.

I slowed as I came to the top of a small hill. My anger had dissipated, but I was as confounded as ever. I launched myself at a tree, ricocheting off its trunk to the next, working my way up into the branches; snow fell heavily below me as the branches shuddered under my weight. I settled where I could see over the tree crowns, seeing the lake in he distance to the east, and the break in the trees and brick buildings representing the city to the south. The snow had stopped for the time being, but the clouds still threatened. I took a steadying breath, and looked for the beauty. There was always something — some detail of creation that could provide solace. Today it was the thick streams of sunlight breaking through the heavy clouds to the southeast, which were painting the lake with streaks of white gems. I offered a quick prayer of thanks, and asked for strength in guiding Edward.

I watched as the clouds resealed the gap, and the sky became dark and flat again; my thoughts returned to the dilemma at hand. The irony was I needed to do the opposite of what I'd been doing. I needed to think of him less as a son, but act more like a father. Edward clearly still needed the guidance of a father figure. Unfortunately, all he had was me. Who was I to think I could honestly play such a role?

Whom could I model my behavior after? My father? Impossible! Aro? Aro, who saw himself as benevolent and wise father of us all, but had less mercy than even _my_ father? And who, like my father, _burned_ those who disagreed with him? No, Aro could not serve as a role model for the sort of father I would want to be. He had wisdom of sorts, but no compassion with which to temper it.

Who then? I dropped back to the ground and turned to the east, toward the lake, and then slowly arced south. Odysseus? I had always identified with the consummate wanderer, but now he just seemed like a man who neglected his family, despite warnings from Athena, the goddess of wisdom herself. Clearly he was not what I needed, though I'd welcome a visit from the goddess to set me straight. I wracked my brain, thinking of any fathers in any of the books I'd been reading. Nothing of use in Shakespeare… most of his fathers were mad, self-absorbed, or dead. Valjean? Hugo's Jean Valjean? I certainly felt more akin to him than any of the others I could think of, but he had floundered as well. They were all complete messes. I didn't have a hope.

And yet, I had to. I had to help Edward out of this decline, before his own despair buried him. I remembered my first months in this life: how terrifying it was to feel your old self slip away, the memories fading every day, until finally only the vampire memory of _remembering_ the human memory remained. It felt like a disease, eating away at your mind and sense of self. It's a hard thing to accept, without the benefit of a long immortal life for perspective, that we are fundamentally the same as we were in our human lives. Our personalities, preferences, habits, pursuits — none of these things change. Eventually, the fading of human memories ends, and it's possible to recognize yourself in your new body, and begin filling your mind with new memories.

For me, it had been a harsh decline until that fateful day a deer passed my cave on the Scottish moor. But Edward's decline had been different. He'd introduced aspects of his human life into the vampiric one before his human memories had entirely faded, slowing the fading process. It had allowed him to cement many more of his human memories into his vampire mind, but it had also slowed the process of acclimating to his new life, dragging it out and possibly making the entire journey more painful. He was more aware of what he was losing, and more pained by its loss. It would be hard to convince him that the feeling would pass.

The fact that he could not control his thirst around humans was not really worrisome at this point. I knew it would get better over the next several months, and when it did, I felt a large part of his confidence would return. In the meantime, I would start allowing him to build up tolerance to tepid temptations, and hope that his confidence would receive small boosts from such minor victories. What was really worrisome to me was that the man I'd come to know over the last three months, a man almost _obsessed_ with music, was purposefully avoiding it. It could only mean that his perception of himself was changing, and that needed to be remedied as soon as possible. My demand that he play Chopin went right to the heart of this, and despite his violent reaction, I still felt it was the most direct solution. If he could manage that, he'd find himself again.

But his accusations shook me, making me doubt the wisdom of addressing his aversion to certain composers head on. If he did _not_ manage to play to his own satisfaction, he might suffer a major setback rather than a breakthrough. It was a gamble, and the stakes were incredibly high: Edward's wellbeing and sense of self. It was probably too late for me to take it back, though. I'd thrown the gauntlet down. If he didn't rise to the challenge now, it would sit there and fester too, making his self-doubt worse. I rubbed my hand over my face in frustration and slowed my pace to a human's as I left the forest and entered the edge of the neighborhood. I was a few blocks further east than my normal route, but the way felt familiar all the same. I closed my coat around me, wishing, for the sake of blending in, that I'd thought to bring a hat, scarf, and gloves.

No, there was no backing out now; I had to help him manage to play Chopin as I knew he could, help him face his fears. I had to help him recognize that he was still himself, that he was still able to play his passion, interpret the genius of those great composers with his _own_ genius, to create something true and beautiful. I just felt woefully unsure of how to do it. My own insecurity and uncertainty made me falter and hesitate, when I was sure that Edward needed me to be confident and sure. If this was a mistake, if making him face his fear now when he was already discouraged about his lack of control was an error in my judgment, it could devastate him. The responsibility for his mental wellbeing was almost crippling.

The issue of training his control was much easier to deal with. The rear entrance of the hospital was quiet when I approached, and after listening for activity in the hall beyond, I slipped in. The smell of death besieged me, and I felt a pang of guilt knowing that they could probably use another physician, especially one that could not succumb to the diseases ravaging the city. But Edward needed me now; medicine would wait. I moved past the door to the morgue, ducking around a corner as I heard voices approaching. When they passed, I doubled back and turned down the steps to the basement. The hospital did not do its own laundry, but there was a laundry room where linens were sorted and bundled for transport. It was not a part of the hospital I was particularly familiar with, but it could serve as an easy source of stale blood. _Not today, though_, I thought as I stepped into the room. Pickup had already happened. Empty bins were stacked neatly against the far wall and under the chute that carried the linens from the upper floors. I noted the time, and vowed to come earlier tomorrow. There was a door to my right that led outside, a narrow brick staircase leading up to a dark alley west of the building. This is where the trucks parked to collect the linens. It would be a much safer egress than the hospital entrance.

Not ready to go home yet, I walked the neighborhood west of the hospital. The park I normally visited was abandoned, snow blanketing the fields, swings, and teeter-totters normally swarming with children. I walked through the park anyway, my footfalls crunching softly through the snow and dead leaves beneath it. I followed a path I generally ignored, which wove through trees. As I continued, lost in thought, I realized that I was hearing laughter up ahead of me, and it was growing louder as I grew closer. Curious now, I rounded the last bend in the path to discover a small pond, frozen over, and teeming with children ice-skating. I grinned broadly, placing my hands in my pockets and hunching my shoulders to better portray a cold human in the eyes of others. I walked among the laughing families on the snowy shore, nodding occasionally as I made eye contact with parents. Weaving among them, I found myself laughing, their infectious moods lightening my own, but also making me feel apart, separate. I wandered over to the far side of the pond, past a grouping of boulders at the edge of the pond, to a snow covered bench. Taking a spruce bough from the ground, I brushed off the bench, clearing it of snow so I could sit and watch the children skate.

It was self-organizing chaos, joyous and raucous and delightful to witness. Movement was generally counter clockwise, but there were groups that would spin off into the middle to practice fancier spins or little leaps. Boys would lay chase to each other, startling the girls as they passed, causing them to erupt into peals of giggles that sounded like bells. I watched them fly about in their dark heavy coats, zigzagging on the ice like a flock of starlings might weave through the air. And I thought about Edward. How I'd heard him laugh like this in the past, but not for many weeks now. I sighed, going over my conundrum again in my mind, the skaters blurring in my vision as my thoughts turned inward. Doubt, worry, resolve doubt… my mind went in circles as I pondered how best to help Edward reclaim his music and his faith in himself. My eyes had actually shifted to the snow at my feet as I thought, before the calls interrupted my reverie…

"Alexander! _Alexander!"_

I looked up to see a young boy careening towards the boulders at this end of the pond, his family and friends far behind, looking on with horrified expressions. I quickly — probably a little too quickly, truth be told — left my bench and leapt onto the pond in front of the boulders, just in time to catch the boy and let his momentum spin us around rather than force us into the rocks.

"Easy, lad," I said to him, smiling and steadying him on his skates before letting go. "Are you all right?"

He looked up at me and his face showed a moment of fear, but then he shook it off, as if reminding himself that I'd just helped him.

"Yes, sir. I just… my skate hit something in the ice over there," he said pointing behind me. "I couldn't get my balance back." I looked over my shoulder and immediately saw the problem.

"There are reeds sticking up out of the ice," I said, wondering if there was a way to flag them so they'd be easier for the skaters to avoid.

"You can see that?" he asked incredulously. Crap. I'd spent too much time away from humans. Edward would find this very amusing, if he could witness it.

"No," I said quickly, turning back to him and smiling warmly. "But it's common on these small ponds, and they are very hard to see. That's almost certainly what you hit." He was looking at me charily when we both heard a man approaching through the snow. Alexander turned as I looked up to see the gentleman approaching the shore, just shy of the boulders.

"Father!" the boy said, leaving me to skate over to him. I watched the boy's feet, making sure that his ankles didn't seem damaged from the incident, and then looked up and smiled at his father, following the boy, and tucking my ungloved hands back in my pockets. I really should have grabbed more props before leaving the house.

"Alexander, are you all right?" His voice was full of worry.

"I'm fine, Father. Mister…" He looked back at me.

"Cullen," I provided.

"Mister Cullen caught me," he finished, turning back to his father. "He thinks I must have caught my skate on a reed sticking out of the ice. I want to go look, okay?"

"You're sure you're okay?" he asked, hands on his son's shoulders, looking him over for injuries.

"I'm fine, Father," Alexander said, rolling his eyes slightly. My chest ached at the familiar expression.

"Well, all right. Off you go, then," he said laughing, and shaking his head slightly. He straightened up and placed his left hand on his hip as he watched his son skate away, and then turned to me and offered his right hand.

"Mr. Cullen," he said as I shook his gloved hand, "I believe you just saved my family a trip to the hospital, and I'm eternally grateful."

I chuckled. "Happy to be of service, Mister…"

"Banks, Eugene Banks. And that was my youngest, Alexander, that you just saved from a broken nose, arm…whatever was going to hit those rocks first."

"How old is the lad?" I asked, nodding in Alexander's direction.

"Twelve… going on eighteen," he said, and I chuckled again. "He has two older brothers, and is quite certain that he is capable of doing anything they can do. It makes him brave, but it gets him into trouble sometimes."

"I really don't think he was reckless in this case; the reeds are nearly impossible to see. Are your other boys here as well?"

"My second, Teddy, is over there, flirting with the young lady in the maroon bonnet," he said, nodding to the other side of the pond, eyes crinkled with amusement. "My eldest is at university, and won't be home for several weeks still. We're all looking forward to having him home for Christmas. Are your children skating too?"

"Oh, um, no. I mean, I don't have any children. Well, I have… my…" What word to use? "My nephew has been living with me since his parents succumbed to the influenza several months ago, but he's not here with me today." Mr. Banks' eyes filled with sympathy.

"I'm so sorry to hear that he lost his parents. How old is he?"

"Seventeen," I said, appreciating the earnest concern in his face.

"That's a tough age," he said, looking out over the pond. "They still need so much direction, but can be rather loathe to accept it. It makes things challenging." He glanced sideways at me, his expression showing humor and sincerity.

I nodded. "It doesn't help that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I was alone before Edward joined me…" I didn't know why I felt so compelled to confide in this stranger. Perhaps I was in awe of his ease in parenthood. "I'm rather afraid of making things worse for him. He struggles so much. I feel I know him now, know what he needs, but I feel out of place telling him."

Eugene studied me for a moment, and then looked back out across the pond, watching Alexander as he was joined by the other children while he pointed at the reeds. The children all circled the area, doing figure eights around the protruding plants. We stood in companionable silence for several minutes, and then he looked at me again.

"Mr. Cullen, you are a kind and generous man, and if I may be so bold, I'd like to offer you some advice."

I felt shocked by his words, but warmed as well. "I welcome the advice, Mr. Banks, but I don't see how you can know what sort of man I am."

He raised an eyebrow, and his mouth turned up. "You jumped onto an icy pond in front of jagged rocks to protect a twelve-year old boy you didn't know from certain injury, _and_ took in your seventeen-year old orphaned nephew. I believe I know what sort of man you are, Mr. Cullen." I looked down, humbled by his assessment, but nodded in acknowledgment. He looked out over the pond again. "It's always a balance, with children, between giving them guidance and giving them space to make their own mistakes…" I nodded again, encouraging him to continue. "In my experience, boys are quicker to forgive too much guidance, provided it's offered in kindness, than too much space. They are easily made to feel neglected. You should trust your instincts, and not be afraid of making mistakes. My eldest… he embodies every mistake I ever made, but in many ways we are the closest for it. The mistakes of action, if well meant, are more easily forgiven than the mistakes of inaction."

I thought about his words as we both gazed out over the skaters. I took in a shuddering breath as they sunk in, and I understood their implications. Finally I looked at him, and he turned to face me. "Thank you for that," I said simply.

His face broke into an easy smile. "Happy to be of service, Mr. Cullen."

I excused myself, explaining that I still had an errand to run before heading home, and he wished me a good day. As I started to walk away, I saw Alexander waving at me from the pond, and responded in kind with a smile. I made my way back up to the path, my mind wandering from thoughts of this confident father, to the fathers from my books, and finally to a memory of how the Greek gods of old would disguise themselves to move among the mortals and bestow their gifts. I stopped abruptly, and looked back at the pond one last time, chuckling under my breath, "Thank you, Athena."

It was ten blocks to my next stop, and though it wasn't snowing, the wind was blowing hard enough to lift the snow from the surrounding surfaces and whip it into my face. Therefore, I wasn't surprised that the streets were virtually empty. When I finally entered the familiar shop, tinkling bells announcing my arrival and warm air welcoming me, it was the owner himself who entered from the back room to greet me from behind the counter, rather than his teenage daughter who normally watched the store.

"Good afternoon! I wasn't expecting to see you back so soon, Mr. Cullen. Luciana told me you bought _five_ works when you came in last week. Surely even _your _young protégé could not have mastered them all by now." He was smiling warmly, clearly happy to have a customer, despite his assertions that it was too soon for me to be buying more music. Truthfully, Edward could have easily learned five pieces in a week if he'd wanted to, but of course, that was the problem, and why I was back.

"Hello, Mr. Scott. No, he hasn't mastered them all yet, but I think I'm still in need of your assistance. And he's certainly not my protégé; that would imply I could play as well."

"Can you not? I always assumed…"

"No," I chuckled. "I'm an avid appreciator of music, but not a creator or interpreter of it. I like to encourage my young ward, however, and his current selections of Chopin are not suiting his needs."

"Well, Chopin was a prolific and varied composer," Mr. Scott said lifting the hinged section of the counter to join me, "perhaps we can find something more to his tastes. Tell me, what has he been attempting?"

"He has several of the Nocturnes and Waltzes," I said, listing them from memory. He lifted one eyebrow and looked displeased. "Is that a problem?" I asked.

"They are Luciana's favorites," he said, looking down and shaking his head slightly. "I wonder why she'd be suggesting _those_ works for your young ward…I'm afraid she has not been serving you well if she's only suggesting her own, rather romantic, preferences."

I smiled reassuringly. "It's my fault. I told her that he had some already, and that they'd been among his father's favorites. We both assumed that more of the same would be a good place to start."

"Hmmm," he said skeptically. "Well, why is the young man displeased with Monsieur Chopin's loveliest works?

I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking. "Honestly, I'm not sure. I _think_ they remind him too much of his parents. He's still suffering their loss, and acclimating to his new life," I said vaguely.

A gleam entered Mr. Scott's eyes. "Perhaps, something a bit stormier, then… more befitting the young man's, um, disposition. I think I know just the thing. Come, follow me, please." He moved quickly to the corner of the shop, and I followed. He pulled out a box and quickly flipped through file markers before pulling out his selection and handing it to me. "What do you think of that?"

I'd never seen notes cover a page so densely, rising and falling like waves. "I hardly know," I stammered.

"Of course, pardon me. I'll play it for you. And perhaps these as well," he said pulling out two others, and then moving to the piano. "These are all Etudes. Two find their inspiration in nature, and the third, in revolution — whether it be a political revolution or the revolution of the soul, we'll let the young man decide. He has quick fingers, if I recall…"

"Yes, speed is not an issue."

He sat at a grand piano — I could easily imagine Edward sitting at a similarly beautiful instrument, if only we had room for it in our small farmhouse. He spread the first piece out on the music rack, studied it for a moment, and then — an explosion of notes. My eyes grew wide. It was as if the emotions I'd sensed roiling beneath the surface of Edward's forced calm had been given voice through the instrument. I looked at the page as if it were an alchemic recipe. After a few measures, I raised my hands to stop him playing.

His brow furrowed. "Not what you were looking for?"

"On the contrary, it's _perfect_."

His face swept into a smile. "Would you like to hear the others? Neither is quite as tumultuous as Revolution, but they are each stormy in their own way. This one is the Ocean Etude," he said, indicating the first piece of music he'd pulled out. I could almost hear the tempestuous sea in the rising and falling notes without him playing. "And this is the Winter Wind Etude."

I looked out the window, remembering the walk over. "Apropos of today." I looked back at him. "I'll take all three. I think… I think this is just what he needs."

"Wonderful!" he said, collecting the spread music together and stacking it neatly. "I'll wrap these in paper for you to protect them from the elements. If he likes them," he added, making his way to the register, "I can recommend others. Oh, and he might like a modern composer, a Russian by the name of Rachmaninoff. We've just recently started stocking his music, and some of it is of a similar vein. Most of the piano concertos are meant to be played with an orchestra, but I'm sure they would hold up as solo pieces." He rung up my purchase and told me my total, and then carefully wrapped the music in waxed paper. He handed the package to me as he took my payment, and looked up and out the window. "It's starting to snow again. You look a bit underdressed, Mr. Cullen. Would you like to borrow a scarf?"

I smiled, inwardly cursing myself again for my hasty exit and lack of foresight. Mistakes in front of Mr. Scott were particularly worrying, since he saw me so regularly. "I'll be fine," I said, tucking the music into my coat. "I'm heading straight home now, and won't be exposed for long. Thank you for all your help."

"Your visits are always a pleasure. I hope those Etudes do the trick. If Luciana tries to pawn another waltz off on you, let me know…though she'll probably find the idea that your boy is a brooding Etude player horribly romantic." He grinned at me and I chuckled. "Have a good evening, Mr. Cullen."

"And you, Mr. Scott."

The sky grew darker and the snow fell in heavy flurries as I finally approached the forest's edge and could quicken my pace. I was beginning to worry that I'd left Edward too long. It hadn't been my intent when I left the house. I'd really only meant to run off some of my anger, and get some soiled linens from the hospital that I could use to start his training. But I had to admit that my time away had done me good. I felt hope again, both for Edward, and for my ability to play a positive role in his existence. I could only hope that leaving him alone with his anger hadn't made things worse for him. _They are easily made to feel neglected_. I hoped that the time I'd taken to find my way hadn't made Edward feel more alone and lost.

I approached the perimeter of what I felt sure was the distance from which Edward could hear my thoughts, and from sheer force of habit, I began remembering music, a Mozart opera that Edward had enjoyed in the past. As soon as I realized I'd done it, however, I stopped. I apologized mentally, and opened my mind to him, allowing him to see where I'd been, and what I'd felt. Part of the reason that we were in this mess was that we weren't communicating. Hiding my thoughts would only serve to exacerbate an already tense situation. For all I knew, he was still angry, still slamming doors and cursing me, or taking his frustration out on the house. If I was going to regain his trust, I needed to be as open as possible.

I finally came within sight of the house — still standing, to my relief. I heard Edward chuckle from within, and was pleased he was at least that calm. I climbed the porch steps and opened the door to find Edward sitting on the stairs near the top; he was greeting me, but from a place where he could easily retreat to his room if he didn't like my attitude.

I looked up at him from the doorway, not knowing exactly where to start, but leaving my mind completely open, so he could take what he wanted.

"I'm sorry I was gone so long; it wasn't really my intention."

He nodded. "You look like the abominable snowman."

I started and looked at my shoulder, seeing an inch of snow clinging to me. "Oh, for the love of..."

"It's starting to melt, now that you're inside," he said, smirking. I stepped backward, back out onto the porch, and brushed as much of the snow off as I could. Through the open door, I saw him stand and turn to walk up the stairs.

"Edward?"

"I'm just getting you a towel; I'll be down in a moment…and you're not coming near my piano until you're completely dry."

I smiled and worked as much of it out of my hair as I could, removed my coat and left it on the porch, removed my shoes, and finally entered the house and closed the door. I wasn't dry, but at least I wouldn't form a puddle. He handed me a towel when he came back down, shaking his head.

"It's all in your collar. You should have worn a scarf."

"I know. I… I didn't think I'd be gone so long," I repeated. I tried to use the towel to get it.

"I needed the time too," he said quietly. "I'm glad you're back though… uh, Carlisle, you're making it worse," he said, rolling his eyes. "Stop… stop. I'll do it." I lowered the towel and saw him move to my side. His fingers were at my neck for just a moment, and then he took the towel in his other hand and pressed it to my drenched collar. He moved to the door and threw a fistful of snow outside as I reclaimed the towel and worked at drying my collar and hair. "Two-hundred and eighty years old and he goes out in a snow storm without a scarf," he muttered under his breath, one corner of his mouth twitching as he retreated across the hall. He leaned back against the wall, and crossed his arms across his chest. Despite his banter and calm, our argument hung heavily in the silent air between us.

"You've been to the music store," he said, looking at the package in my hand.

"Yes, and I'd like you to hear me out, before you get angry."

"I'm not…" He looked away for a moment, sighing. "I'm not going to get angry." He looked up at me, eyes worried. "Carlisle, I'm so sorry about what I said. You're nothing like your father… I _know_ that. I was just..."

"Angry," I offered.

"Scared, I think."

I was taken aback by his honesty, and he shrugged. "You're being open."

"You're forgiven," I said, "and I'm glad that you see I'm not like my father. But I'm also glad you said everything you did…It needed to be said, Edward. I needed to hear your thoughts. I don't share your gift. I've been… presumptuous in many respects, and it's not at all fair to you. I will try to do better in the future."

"I don't really want you to have to guard your thoughts; that's not fair of me."

"I'm not talking about keeping thoughts from you, I'm talking about changing the way I think. It's already begun. I think of you in a much more… reasonable way because of what you shared with me. It's not that I care for you less," I said quickly, seeing the alarm in his eyes, "far from it. I'm just more focused on what you need from me." He looked into my face, and I was sure into my mind as well, gleaning what I was having difficulty articulating. Then he let out a slow breath.

"You smell like them more than you usually do when you come back from your trips to town."

"I was gone longer, and had more contact," I said, letting him see Alexander crashing into me, and all my time at the pond. His eyes widened and then his mouth quirked up.

"You experienced divine intervention, Carlisle?"

"Hmmm, well, perhaps... or the good will of humanity."

"So you asked God for strength but you were answered by the goddess of wisdom?" His eyes were dancing at the irony.

I looked at him sheepishly. "Perhaps they were working together..." I answered. He responded with a grin, which he quickly hid.

"I miss skating."

"That's easily remedied," I said smiling. "And I notice that, despite the fact that I smell like them, we are having a rational conversation and you have not attacked me once."

He smirked. "I noticed that too. So I guess I have _some_ control, though to be fair, most of the scent is probably on the coat you left outside.

_Which you have also not attacked._ He nodded acknowledgment.

"Go upstairs and change, Carlisle. Bathe if you want to. We can talk about this package when you come down. Should I look at the music now, or wait for you?"

"Wait, I think. I'd like to be able to explain." He nodded and waved me off, and I went upstairs and cleaned up, hoping that he'd be receptive to the music; hoping he would try it, at least. Ten minutes later, I found him sitting at his piano, the package of music still wrapped, sitting in the music rack. His shoulders were squared, as if he were bracing himself. He slid to the left as I entered the room, and I sat next to him, as I had before in his family home.

"This is what you wanted, right?"

"Yes, thank you." He waited while I collected my thoughts. "You told me once that your father played Chopin for your mother… to woo you mother, and to comfort her when she was upset."

"That's right."

"And he played the Nocturnes and Waltzes for her, predominantly."

"A few of the Preludes…"

"Still, they are all fairly lyrical and romantic pieces."

"I suppose."

I paused. "It occurs to me, that the reason you feel you can't play those songs adequately might not be because you're a vampire, or have supposedly lost your soul. Perhaps, rather, it's because you're not in love." His eyes grew infinitesimally wider as he pondered that thought, and showed just the slightest hint of hope. "Tell me, could you play those pieces before, when you were human?"

"No, I wasn't skilled enough for them."

"So, you are comparing your playing now to your memory of your father's playing, a memory that is fading and somewhat idealized." He looked sideways at me and I realized I needed to tread carefully talking about his father.

"I would argue that, in every way that truly matters, you are the same man that you were before. Some things come easier to you now, but your passions and preferences are the same. They are not, however, the same as your father's passions or preferences. You should not try to force yourself to play like him; you won't succeed. You were different men. You can only play like you.

"Chopin wrote a lot of music, utilizing a broad emotional range. It's possible that you'd feel more at home with something like this." I unwrapped the paper and handed him the contents, starting with the Revolution Etude. He set the other two aside on the top of the piano, and looked over the notations on the first piece.

"This isn't going to be very tranquil, Carlisle," he said, flipping the page as he studied the music. He was laying it out on the music rack, whether strictly from habit or not, I wasn't sure, but I took it as a good sign.

I smiled at him. "Edward, I lived with tranquility for the better part of two and a half centuries. I assure you, I find it rather overrated."

His eyes moved across the page, and I could see excitement growing as he positioned his hands, careful not to press on the keys. He flipped the page and positioned his hands again, mapping out the changes. The left hand in particular was moving across a broad swath of the keys. When he'd walked through the entire piece mentally, I saw him square his shoulders, and then…hesitation. He placed his hands on his knees and his chest sagged, his face suddenly haunted.

"Edward?" He looked up at me timorously, and then shook his head, looking back at the pages. I waited, trying to offer him support without interfering with whatever debate he was having with himself. Slowly, he leaned toward me until our shoulders were touching. I tried to remember if he'd ever initiated contact between us before.

"I'm afraid to try," he whispered. "Afraid I'll still feel… empty."

I sighed and leaned toward him as well, making our connection stronger. "Edward, you are going through a difficult time. It's horrible, feeling your memories fade. I remember. I think this will help you find yourself… I have faith in that, or I would not suggest it. Just try. Just feel whatever this music makes you feel, and play it how _you_ want to hear it. You don't need to be anything but yourself with me, Edward."

He nodded and squared his shoulders again, positioning his hands on the keys

"I'll be close, if you need me," I said, standing and giving his shoulder a small squeeze before retreating to the sofa in the parlor to give him room to play.

He began, and even I could feel the immediate connection he had to the music. He was all taut concentration and flying fingers, and expressions of fury and ecstasy. I smiled, picking up my book, and a revolution trembled and shimmered in the air.

* * *

**A/N Please, please, please, go immediately to this link to see Chopin, Etude Op.10 No. 12 (Revolution). If Freddy Kempf had wild bronze hair, and a grand piano fit in the farmhouse, this is _exactly_ how I would envision Edward looking like as he played in the fading light.**

**www . youtube . com / watch?v=Tt8AQKFkYBk&feature=related**

**Here are the other two Etudes, if you are interested…Edward will be learning them soon.**

**Chopin, Etude Op.25 No.12 (Ocean)**

**www . youtube . com / watch?v=5M2PO4f5Y7k&feature=related**

**Chopin, Etude Op. 25 No. 11 (Winter Wind)**

**www . youtube . com / watch?v=j8n36NFmsMg**

**I have put all the music for the entire story to date on my profile. If you want to hear some romantic Chopin to contrast with the Etudes, you'll find it there.**

**You can also find the links for the Inspired Fan Fic awards and Vampies. 'Prelude in C' has been nominated in both. First round of voting for the Inspired Fan Fics has closed, but the Vampies remain open until the 28th. There are many fabulous stories nominated in both contests, very deserving of your attention and votes. If you are inclined to vote for Prelude, I'm extremely grateful.**

**I often tweet as I write, so if you want to know where I am on the next chapter, follow me (ATONAU) on Twitter. And of course I would love for you to review and give me your thoughts on this chapter.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N First, I would like to thank you all for your patience with my sometimes long stretches between chapters. RL has been demanding, and since we weren't at a cliffhanger, I was hoping you'd all forgive me. Second, I'd like to thank EVERYONE who voted in the two contests Prelude was nominated in recently. I'm still completely amazed by the fact that Prelude won the Vampie Award for Bloody Brilliant (Best Overall) (1-50 reviews/chapter)! Thank you all for your support. I'm truly honored and grateful. Finally, I'd like to thank my exceptional beta, Coleen561, who always keeps me honest, even if it requires an excel file timeline, and my author-friend Zoya Zalan, who loves my boys almost as much as I do, and let's me chat about them _ad nauseum_. Oh yeah, and SM actually owns the boys…**

**We left off with Edward learning that Chopin had a moody, brooding side that he could _completely_ relate to…**

EPOV

Revolution was still my favorite. I'd played it for hours that first night. Over and over, the walls reverberating from the sounds of the last two chords, as I pulled my arms back abruptly, panting and staring at the keys, only to place my hands in the starting position again. It was passion; exquisite agony… the build up of tension, the moment of hesitant reflection, and then violent insurgency, upheaval and transformation. It was perfect. It was me. And I was transformed. Not completely…that would be too much to ask of any piece of music, but I was so much better. I still felt I had lost my soul, but I no longer felt that I had lost my_self_. For now, that was enough to satisfy me.

The catharsis I felt when dawn finally crept through the music room was more complete than anything I'd ever felt. I closed the key guard, staggered over to the sofa, and collapsed, limbs literally shaking. I was completely spent. I did not feel the joy I'd once associated with hours of playing, but I felt peace. My mind was quiet, and Carlisle's was muted and satisfied. If he'd gotten bored hearing the same two-and-a-half-minute melody for the entire course of the night as I worked out all the frustration and tension that had haunted me, he gave no indication. More importantly, though, as the dawn illuminated the small room, and we sat on either side of the sofa, spent and satisfied, we both knew we'd taken the first steps toward being okay again. There was a glimmer of hope in Carlisle's mind that I couldn't deny.

Two days later, his thoughts broke through my mental silence as I worked on Winter Wind Etude.

_Edward, go to the barn, close yourself in, and hold your breath until I tell you otherwise._

I got up from the piano immediately, holding my breath as I made my way outside. He'd been in town for a few hours, and he sounded serious; perhaps he'd found a human approaching the house as he returned. I should have realized that something was going on when I saw the truck already parked outside, but I was so focused on being safe, I just closed myself into the dark barn, moved into the far corner and huddled on the floor. I wrapped my arms tightly around my bent legs, closed my eyes, laid my forehead upon my knees, and _willed_ myself not to think of the enticing aroma I felt sure I could indulge in if I just took a breath. I tried not to think of the cloying scent, and how it warped my desires, intoxicated me, and made me lose my damned mind. The intoxication was terrifying, because it felt _wonderful_. And though my perfect memory could recall everything I'd done to Carlisle when I was last under the influence of that most potent of drugs — and the thoughts filled me with remorse —there were other memories as well: euphoria, power, glee. And those memories felt so tempting. The joy of letting loose this careful control and just _being_ what I am was tempting, but I couldn't. I knew it would disappoint everyone I'd ever cared about: my father, who prosecuted murderers and rapists while he lived; my mother, who had asked for my immortality because she saw Carlisle's compassion toward humankind when she felt her own humanity being stripped away by the failure of her body; and finally Carlisle, who had only ever put my needs and the needs of others above his own. I'd already disappointed him, and it had left a bitter taste in my mouth. I swallowed down the venom and imaginary bile. I would do what I had to not to disappoint them...to not disappoint him.

I heard his even steps approach the barn; it sounded like he was alone. The door opened, and I looked up to watch his silhouetted figure enter and then turn to refasten the door. I heard a loud metallic click. A padlock hung from the latch, and my eyes quickly scanned the other exits; they'd all been locked in a similar manner. I jumped to a low crouch as I watched Carlisle move to the center of the barn. I battled my instincts; I felt threatened by the fact that he was locking me in, and it was hard to remember that I actually trusted him more than anyone I knew. I swallowed down another mouthful of venom and tried to get control of myself. This was Carlisle. He wouldn't hurt me, or keep me captive. And those locks wouldn't hold me anyway; they would only slow me down as I broke through the door. My fists clenched as I fought back my panic, fighting to hold my breath. I stood upright, facing my friend. Carlisle's face was cautious as he perceived my alarm, his hand smoothing over the buttons of his over coat, as if it might offer him protection from me. His mind was methodically whispering words I didn't understand…Latin, perhaps, or Italian. He was concentrating very hard to keep me out. If I were going to stay with him much longer I was going to have to learn a few languages. Our eyes were locked as I slowly straightened and walked a few steps toward him. When I was ten feet away he held his hand up and I stopped.

_You can breathe now._

"What's going on, Carlisle? Why have you locked us in?" I asked, using the breath I'd been holding. As I took my next, I realized what he'd done. Blood was thick on the air, and in a flash the red veil was over my eyes, nearly blinding me with its intensity. My mind was startled by sudden movement — _my _sudden movement. I could smell the blood, feel a body beneath me, see a throat lying vulnerable above a closed collar; it would be _nothing_ to slice through it. Joy pulsed through my mind; I threw my head back and growled in euphoric expectation. I bared my teeth and took another deep breath as I prepared to sink my teeth into the warm yielding flesh. That's when I noticed the other scent: sweet and warm, like sandalwood and spice. Familiar. I shook my head, trying to clear it enough to make sense of the conflicting aromas. The red veil lifted slightly, and I realized the body beneath me was _not_ warm or yielding; no pulse throbbed in its throat. My eyes raised enough to see Carlisle's impassive expression as he lay pinned beneath me on the dirt floor of the barn. Through his mind I could see my own feral expression, and it startled me closer to coherence. I could hear my own pants as I struggled with these conflicting sensory inputs. Carlisle raised a single eyebrow as he studied my face, and I lowered my face to his body, sniffing, looking for the source of the aroma that didn't belong to him. I could hear his thoughts quietly encouraging me to make sense of the smells, to find my way back through the crimson fog. I sat up, realizing that I was straddling his torso, grabbed the closed edges of his coat and tore it open, buttons flying. There, on his chest, was the source of my exquisite torture: part of a blood-soaked bed sheet. The fire raging in my throat flared, and the intoxicated elation I'd been enjoying crumbled as I realized that this parched flame would not be soothed any time soon. Horrified, I scrambled backward like a crab to get away from the blood, but Carlisle sat bolt upright and lunged forward to grab at my arm. We sat on the floor, grasping each other's wrists, like some sort of secret society handshake, and watched the scrap of bed sheet fall to the floor between us. A sob escaped my mouth, and his grip tightened. I couldn't look away from the bright red against white cotton.

"You're doing well, Edward."

I scoffed and sobbed, taking in gulps of dry, searing painful air.

"Truly, Edward. You were only incoherent for fifteen seconds. That's very good."

"It would have been enough time to kill you if you'd been human," I spat.

"Of course, but I'm not. And you brought yourself out of it with no help. And I'd given you no warning of what was to happen." This wasn't strictly true. I'd known blood training would be starting soon. And as always, being linked to his mind was more helpful than he realized. But the fact that he'd tried to keep his thoughts to himself meant that at least my initial steps back to sanity had been my own. Perhaps I had done well for a first effort. My mind was clear for the moment, but the burning ache in my throat had not relented; it would slowly sap my mind over time.

"It burns so much," I choked.

"I know," he sighed.

"I thought it didn't effect you."

He picked up the sheet and took a deep breath with it mere inches from his face. I shuddered as I watched him; the blood was darkening as it slowly dried, and contrasted with his skin almost as much as the sheet. His thoughts analyzed his reaction.

"My physiological response is probably not so different than it ever was. I feel the tightening of my throat, a heightening of my senses. If I concentrated on it, I can notice the itch of the burn. It just doesn't register as pain anymore, and I don't find it distracting."

"It doesn't take over your mind?" I asked.

"It barely registers among my senses. It's background information, like the color of the sky, or temperature and pressure of the wind. It means nothing to me… it's not food, it's not friend. It just is, so it's relegated to the background. But it took a long time. And this sample is easier. This blood is cool, and drying. It shouldn't be that tempting even to you."

I swallowed back my venom as I pondered this. "So if the blood were warm it would be harder?"

"Absolutely, if it were spilled like this. Warm blood within an uninjured human is easier to resist than spilled blood. But this is good practice to start with, and when you can withstand this, you should be able to walk among humans, at least briefly. Has the pain leveled out yet, or is it still getting worse?"

"It's leveled out, I guess, but my ability to think around it is waning. It's wearing down my mind."

He nodded his understanding. "You need to build up endurance — mental endurance to the pain. As the blood dries it will get easier, and even your fatigued mind will find it easier to ignore. We will do this as often as I can find appropriate blood."

It was starting to get easier. The drying blood was less fragrant, and had an almost sour element that was growing stronger. My throat still burned, but my thinking suddenly cleared a bit more.

"What do you mean by 'appropriate'?"

"Some of our kind are natural trackers, so I didn't want to bring you blood from someone still alive, in case it set you tracking. That's the reason for the other precautions as well," he said, nodding to the padlocked door. "But I couldn't just use blood from the morgue or the laundry room…I tried it, but it was too stale. This person died on the operating table this morning. The longer you stay exposed to the blood, the more desensitized you'll become." We both shifted to get more comfortable, and I continued taking deep breaths, hoping the exposure would eventually numb or dull the pain in my throat. Thinking about it wasn't helping. I needed distraction.

"What were you thinking, when you came in? I didn't understand."

He smiled. "I was conjugating verbs in Latin. I didn't want you to associate any music with this. Maybe music would help though…"

"No, I think you're right, I don't want music. But maybe you could tell me a story…distract me some."

"What would you like to hear?" he asked smiling.

I thought back to the overview of his life he'd told me weeks ago in his study. "Tell me about Prague. Why were you there?"

His voice soothed my mind as he began explaining the events that had led him to that ancient city – how he'd marveled at the architecture: ancient fortresses and castles among brand new factories. I closed my eyes, and in his mind I could see images of the places he'd been, and the people he'd helped. I saw him as he traveled to the burgeoning Jewish quarter, volunteering in the clinic of the prosecuted minority. I smiled as I added this story to my understanding of Carlisle's character. As he continued, I was so wrapped in his story that I barely noticed the passage of time, until he faded to a stop.

"Edward, the smell has faded; how are you feeling?"

My eyes opened and I looked at him as if I were waking up from a dream. "I'm…I'm fine actually," I said, realizing that the burn in my throat was barely noticeable now.

"Why don't we go for a hunt, then? I'll take care of that," he motioned to the scrap of fabric, "and meet you at the house in a few minutes. Here's the key for the padlock," he said, handing me the two-inch brass key.

And so it went for the next couple of weeks. Some days were better than others. Once, when I hadn't fed well the night before and the blood was particularly strong, I _did_ bite Carlisle's throat. His cry of pain and the cold venom flooding my mouth when I expected warm blood pulled me abruptly out of my crimson fog. I spent the next twenty minutes repairing his wound and apologizing. When I was finished, he traced the faint scar with his finger. "Now we match," he said, and I could read in his thoughts that he was strangely pleased about this. I rolled my eyes and told him he'd lost his mind, but his amused demeanor kept me from slipping too deeply into self-loathing over the incident.

With the exception of a few notable setbacks, I improved each day. I made good use of my time in the barn. Although each training session started with me trying not to lose my damned mind to the scent of the blood, the hours after that consisted of me becoming acclimated to the pain and learning to ignore it and think around it. Thus, I had to have things to think about. While learning of Carlisle's travels was always interesting, there were important skills I needed to master if I were going to be responsible for my own affairs and be able to exist on my own. I read the book Carlisle lent me on estate law, and then I read several others. Carlisle took me through all his correspondence with Mr. Campbell about my estate. I figured if I was in pain anyway, I may as well double it by learning about incorporation law, business versus personal taxes, and compound interest. I took over the correspondence with Mr. Campbell, with Carlisle's guidance, and made some minor adjustments to how he was setting up my corporate documents. Now that I understood what he was intending, I had to agree it made a lot of sense. Mr. Campbell's original strategy might have worked well for an average person with an average lifespan, but for an immortal who would be reinventing himself routinely, Carlisle's strategy offered many advantages.

Carlisle taught me how to access my bank accounts, once the inheritance cleared probate. He showed me how to keep a record of my checks and calculate interest. None of it was difficult, but it would have been awkward to sort out without instruction. It wasn't exactly interesting, but I could appreciate the details for brief periods of time, and it was strangely reassuring to deal with something so mundane and human while simultaneously trying to get control of my very _inhuman_ instincts. As much as I tried not to think too much of my parents, especially as the end of the year approached, I felt closer to my father while managing all these things that he had once handled and I'd taken for granted. I shook my head. Carlisle was teaching me the things my father had tried to instill in me. _I'm finally getting it, Father…a little late, I know… _I hoped he could see. Best to stop this line of thinking…

I sighed and looked up from the letter I was writing Mr. Campbell. He was wondering if I felt up to a meeting yet; _definitely not._ He was still not in a hurry, thankfully, but there were things that we were handling via post now that could be more efficiently dealt with face to face. I was putting him off a few weeks. It wasn't difficult; Carlisle had given me the names of half a dozen secondary infections I could be relapsing with.

The barn was dark and cold, and the wind whistled through the gaps between the double barn doors, rustling my papers as I resumed writing. Carlisle was late; my throat had been entirely too comfortable for almost a day now…I sighed, trying to channel his patience. And bracing myself…he'd be home soon, and we'd begin the torturous lessons again. It was necessary, and I was pleased that I was making some progress, but it could hardly be considered fun. I then heard Carlisle's thoughts approach from the southwest: not the direction of the hospital. He was working to balance several packages as he ran. I frowned, realizing that there would be no training today, finished the paragraph I was writing, and took the letter to the house. I met Carlisle at the door.

"I thought we'd agreed not to celebrate Christmas," I said, frowning at a flat box that was fastened with a bright green ribbon.

"That one's not from me," he said quickly, entering the parlor and closing the door behind us. "The Scotts were quite insistent. You are one of their best customers and have rather captured their imaginations, I think…not many 17-year-olds can play the music I buy for you. Mr. Scott specifically said he thought you'd enjoy this. He picked out the Chopin Etudes I brought home."

"Hmm. Well, that's promising; I was afraid it might be 'Good King Wenceslas' or something. I'm surprised they were open today." It was the 24th. Christmas Eve. I'd just dated a letter earlier and I still hadn't registered the importance of the date. I'd worked so hard not to think about it, compartmentalized it so successfully that I might have made it through the evening without thinking about the holiday, and how it would never be like the ones I'd celebrated with my family, if I hadn't seen that damned green ribbon. I looked at the package warily.

"They were just open until noon. I told them that we weren't making a fuss over the holiday, since you were still in mourning. I went in to see if the Beethoven you'd wanted had come in yet, and they had this waiting for me on the counter. Open it," he said, setting the other boxes on the floor and sitting on the sofa as he held the flat rectangular box out to me. "There's no sense in fretting over it."

"I'm not fretting."

He cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Fine!" I said with an exasperated smirk. I tore the ribbon off the small box and opened it to find a rather thick stack of sheet music, with a neatly written note atop:

Mister Masen,

As one composer is inspired by another, we hope you will find beauty and inspiration in the notes of old and new masters.

Happy Returns, The Scott Family

"Have you heard of Rachmaninoff?" I asked.

"He's a modern composer. Mr. Scott has mentioned that you might like him. He's Russian, but he just moved to New York." Carlisle looked into the box with me. 'Variations on a Theme of Chopin, Opus 22'…It seems you and Mr. Rachmaninoff may have some tastes in common."

"It's long," I said, and then corrected myself. "No, they've also given me blank staff paper. I don't compose, though."

Carlisle chuckled. "Well, I think Mr. Scott would say you don't compose _yet_." He remembered a conversation for me, where Mr. Scott was pressing Carlisle to encourage my writing as a form of dealing with my loss. He had no idea. Still…

"This was a really thoughtful gift," I said quietly, sitting on the sofa beside Carlisle. "It makes me wish I knew them."

"Give yourself some time, Edward," he said softly. "I wouldn't be surprised if you could pay them a visit in a few months." I looked at Carlisle incredulously, but he just smiled, and his thoughts were completely sincere.

"It's something to aspire to, I suppose," I said noncommittally. It was odd to think that people I'd never met were so concerned about my happiness that they would send me a gift. A memory flashed through my mind — a different gift of music…my father's hands pulling pages out of a red box and placing them on the piano. I shook my head to clear the image. "Those two don't look like sheet music," I said, nodding at the other two much larger boxes.

"Ah…" Carlisle said, as though he'd been caught doing something wrong. "I bought these for us…they are more winter gifts than Christmas gifts, per se. I hadn't even intended to give them to you tonight. I was going to put them upstairs for later." He was trying to placate me. I could see the thought behind his statement; this might be our only Christmas together, and he was most certainly going to get me a gift, even if we weren't celebrating in any other way. But he was trying to be sensitive to my request; I didn't want to celebrate a holiday that I knew would have me spiraling in depression. I'd been working so hard not to think about it. _He'd _been working so hard not to think about it in my presence. But now we were here, and it seemed silly to ignore his gift and make him take it upstairs so he could give me a Christmas gift in January. I took the box, feeling its weight. Something heavy shifted within as I tilted it. "You mentioned that you missed skating," he continued as I opened the box and found a pair of new ice skates. "You're going to have to venture out among humans at some point…I thought we might go for a midnight skate or two as your first trips into the city. No one else should be at the pond that late, but we'll have to go through the neighborhoods to get to it. Once you start mastering control over the scent of blood, you need to work on controlling yourself around their thoughts."

"That sounds even harder than what we're doing now." I saw another flash of my human memories: walking at night with other children. I could only see their clothing. Organ music was fading behind us. I shook it off.

"It might be. I certainly don't have any experience to draw on to help you with it. All I can think to do is take you out in fairly controlled situations, where I can assist you if you become overwhelmed, and give you an opportunity to come up with your own solution. I've never heard of a gift quite like yours. I think you are going to have to figure out a way to block some of their thoughts on your own; I just want to make sure we give you enough time to work it out while I'm still around to support you. Besides, I haven't skated in over a century. It will be fun." He smiled at me, but concern showed around his eyes. He studied my face, and his mind was ticking off signs of stress. Part of him wished we could celebrate more openly, but he respected and understood my wishes and just hoped that I'd accept a modest gift without a fuss. If I'd accept it and skate with him one day, that would be gift enough for him. He was so easy to please.

"Thanks, Carlisle. This was…unexpected. I've been trying to ignore the approach of Christmas. I just…" I trailed off as I was bombarded with more fractured memories: fragments of images, incoherent and incomplete. My mother's red gown and ruby choker. A small crystal star hanging from a bough. Father sitting at the piano, surrounded by people in formal attire. A crystal mug. I groaned and settled my head in my hands, trying to control the onslaught of images.

"I'm sorry, Edward," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You made yourself perfectly clear that you did not wish to mark the holiday. I marked it in town, and we needn't talk about it anymore."

I nodded through my hands, still unable to look up. Many of the images flashing through my mind didn't even have meaning for me anymore…it was like looking at someone else's photographs. I couldn't recall their significance. I had memories of Christmas with my parents, things I'd worked to remember as soon as Carlisle explained that my memories would fade. Most of these images weren't directly related…at least I didn't think they were. Who knew, really? My hands clenched into fists and I squeezed my eyes closed.

_Edward?_

I just shook my head. I was having a hard time controlling my emotions.

_Why do I do this to him? He's shaking, for God's sake. Why do I put my own desires ahead of his? I could have put the music away before he saw it. I could have gotten the skates next week. He said he didn't want to mark it. I should have heeded him more closely…_

I shook my head. I _was_ shaking. Then it hit me. Of all the images that were passing through my mind— my parents dancing, snippets of laughter— their faces were always unfocused. I could see how they stood, what they wore, but the thing that might give me solace was denied…their visages dim and blurred. I released a sob, and tried harder to remember. I should have never stopped thinking of them. What if I couldn't get them back?

"Edward, I'm so sorry. What can I do?" _What is happening? Is it the gifts? Does he want to be alone? He sometimes wants to be alone when he's this upset._

I shook my head again, my breathing rough. I couldn't stop the onslaught of images, or the pain of their faded, incomplete nature. Carlisle shouldn't beat himself up over this. This wasn't his fault, unless you went all the way back to the fact he changed me. I'd been avoiding these thoughts, and now I was paying for it. It was unrealistic to think that I was going to make it through this holiday unscathed. I missed them. I missed them so much, but I also felt that I didn't miss them as much as I should. I'd been doing well the last couple of weeks, focusing on my training. Carlisle had told the Scotts that I was in mourning, but I _hadn't_ been mourning them the way that I should have been…hadn't been remembering them the way that I should have been. Now it was too late.

_Not alone, then. Does he want…_

I froze as I saw what was in his mind. I remembered being under the lake, and I slowly nodded. Carlisle's arm was immediately around my shoulder, pulling me into his side, and I sunk against his ribcage and shoulder, continuing my tearless sobs. He held me like that for a long time, just thinking that whatever it was, he would help me though it. I slowly calmed down enough to speak.

"I can't see their faces," I finally whispered. He gasped and held me tighter as I continued. "I have all these memories flashing through my mind…Christmas memories; things I've been trying to avoid… and now I realize it's too late. I can't see their faces clearly. I can see my mother's Christmas dress, my father's brandy glass, but not their faces. They are dim…out of focus."

"That happens," he said, and I could feel his jaw move across the top of my head as he spoke. "The way humans remember faces is tied to emotions. As you enter this life your emotional ties to your old life fade. It's unpleasant, I know, but it's normal."

"It hurts. It's like a burn in my throat, but it's right behind my eyes."

"I know. I'm sorry." He squeezed my shoulder tighter and rubbed his cheek across the top of my head. "You're trying too hard to hang on to it. Let go of the faces in those memories. You have their faces elsewhere, in all your photos. Instead, try to use these memories to recall what was important to them…who they were, not what they looked like."

I nodded; that made sense. I took a steadying breath and tried to relax my muscles, as if that would help relax my mind. I reviewed the snippets of memory and tried to put them in context of what I remembered about my parents…the narrative I'd managed to retain through the change. A few of the images fit with what I knew.

"You can tell me about them, if you'd like. I don't want to pry, but I would like to know more about them, if you'd like to share."

My brows knit. "You want to hear about my parents? How they celebrated Christmas?"

"It sometimes helps to talk, Edward. And yes, if you want to tell me about them, I would enjoy learning more about your human life. I know you had a loving family…I imagine that the holidays were quite joyous."

I was quiet for a while. It was hard to imagine that Carlisle would find any interest in my old life, but then again, I found his stories entertaining… "We always had a large party… every year, I think. One of father's business associates dressed as St. Nicholas and gave the children presents."

Carlisle chuckled. "You liked the parties?"

"No!" I laughed through my sobs. "I hated them. I had to talk to my father's associates and wear a suit." Carlisle joined in my laughter. "But she — my mother — made everything beautiful. The whole house sparkled. Even now I can remember it enough to know that if I ever live in that house again, I'll never be able to replicate what she did."

"Best not to try," Carlisle said soothingly. "Take some small part of those old traditions forward, and incorporate them into your own new traditions. Some part of it will stay alive in your new customs, just as some part of them remains alive through your continued existence."

I pondered that as I continued. "Father always played piano… the guests would sing Christmas carols as he played. There were tables of sweets, all of which seem revolting to me now, but I liked them at the time." Carlisle laughed again as he heard the disgust in my voice. "I can see other images… a crystal mug, a ribbon tied around a wrist, but I don't remember what they mean," I sighed. "Do you remember Christmas from your human life?"

"No. I don't think so. I remember singing in a very dark, very cold church… it might have been Christmas Eve, but it could have just been any Sunday evening in winter." I saw the memory. It didn't have any of the joy I associated with my Christmas memories.

"It _was_ dark," I said quietly. "I wish I could show you my memories." I felt Carlisle's joy at the suggestion.

"That would be interesting. But I appreciate you telling me about them. I confess I was rather afraid you'd be angry with me tonight. I know you're struggling with the change."

I sighed, debating what to tell him. I settled on honesty. "Carlisle, I'm still angry with you every day for changing me — furious in fact." I felt him stiffen, and his fingers tighten slightly on my arm. "It's just not the only thing I feel anymore. Things have been better, since the training started." He turned that over in his mind.

"Because it means you can be independent…" He was envisioning me leaving.

"Yes, but not quite how you're thinking." I pulled away from him so I could sit up and face him. His arms looked empty and awkward as he fidgeted under my gaze. "I just don't like feeling helpless or dependent. I've been enjoying the time we spend together doing things lately, now that I don't feel so…so powerless."

He nodded. "We are doing things now as equals…"

"Well, we're hardly equals; I'm still a vampire in training," I said rolling my eyes. "There's still a ton of stuff I need to learn from you. But now that we've started, it all feels possible. I wasn't sure it would be for a while there. It was really depressing." He nodded again, accepting of both my anger and my hope.

"We are equals, Edward. Of course, I'm teaching you right now, assisting you, but that's temporary. In every way that matters, I consider you my equal." I looked into his face and his mind. It was true. He actually thought more highly of me in some ways than he thought of himself. I scrubbed my hand over my face and ran it though my hair. I was suddenly tired of feeling sad; I wanted distraction.

"What do you want to do for the rest of the evening?" I asked.

He smiled. "I think under the circumstances, I'll leave it up to you. Do you need to hunt?"

"No, I'm good. Maybe I'll embrace an old tradition and play for a while… no caroling though!" I said, picking up the Rachmaninoff. I had to admit I was curious.

"And new traditions?" Carlisle asked.

I looked up at him. "What, besides bawling on the sofa? That wasn't celebration enough?"

His eyes softened and he tilted his head. "It can be…"

I shook my head, smirking. "Chess?"

"Let me know when you're ready," he said, smiling warmly and retreating to the hearth.

I allowed myself to get lost in the music, surprising myself by enjoying the section of Chopin's Prelude in C minor that introduced Rachmaninoff's 22 variations on it. Some of the variations were quite short, but it was amusing to see how he teased the theme out over and over, taking it in different directions. I realized that I was experiencing a genius at work. Each variation could be clearly linked to the original Chopin, but some were so different from each other, you'd never see the link without going back to those strong, melancholy chords first. It wasn't exactly traditional Christmas music, nor was it as stormy as the Etudes, but it wandered through sweet and bittersweet moods, and it suited me. I would have to write the Scotts a thank-you card.

After a few hours I sat down in my armchair in front of the fire. Carlisle had already set up the board, the one we'd meant to play with all those weeks ago. It had sat untouched through our crisis, but somehow it seemed fitting that we'd sit before it now. This Christmas Eve, we'd finish making our peace by pretending to go to war.

"Do you remember how to play?" he asked. I almost answered immediately that I did, but as I looked at the pieces, my brows furrowed in a frown.

"No," I admitted.

"Don't worry, the basics are quite simple, and the strategy you'll learn as you go."

It was fascinating listening to Carlisle's mind work through his options, playing each one through several moves before abandoning it to the next. That was how I learned strategy. I saw the moves that Carlisle imagined me playing, and chose the option I liked best. Of course, as we continued to play over weeks and months, he understood what I was doing, and began to use it against me…planting false strategies and then not following the moves I'd just seen him make in his head. It was clever, and if I watched carefully, I could sometimes tell when he did it, and adjust my playing. Then he caught on to _that_ and he'd plant the signs on strategies he actually intended to use. It was an arms race, not only on the board but also in his head. It was chess as only we could play it.

We were playing in mid March, and I was pretending to study the board as I really studied Carlisle's mind. He was watching me, amused, as I placed my finger on one piece as if to move it, only to switch to another: rook, pawn, knight. Sometimes when I did this, I could see which move he'd rather I make. He wasn't thinking about strategy though. He was savoring the scene, memorizing it, storing it so he would be able to recall it perfectly later: the way the fire in the hearth warmed half our bodies as we faced each other over the board, the Vivaldi recording playing in the background, the way we tried to distract each other…

"I don't know, Edward. I agree the skills are all there, but they have yet to really pull together and play as a team. This is not the same crew that won the '17 pennant."

"You're wrong, old man," I said, finally moving my rook. "Shoeless Joe was looking really good last year. He batted a .354! That's unheard of. Though come to think of it, I could probably do better," I smirked. "This is going to be their year: White Sox in the Series, second time in three years."

He shook his head, laughing at my enthusiasm, and I was startled by the view of my own face as he watched me. I saw through his mind something I hadn't noticed looking in a mirror. My eyes grew wide, making my discovery more obvious.

"What's wrong?" Carlisle asked.

I dropped my hands to my knees and looked at him, confirming it again. "My eyes are the same color as yours."

He smiled. "Yes they are," he said, moving his queen. "Check. And the blood I brought from the hospital in the vial yesterday was very fresh."

"It was hard; I barely controlled myself."

"But you did. And spilled blood is much more tempting than an uninjured human. I think it's time we went skating."

"Really?" I asked incredulously, moving my knight between his queen and my king. _Take the bait, Carlisle._ "When?"

"Tonight, around one. Whatever melted today will have refrozen by then, and we'll have a few hours before any early deliveries are made. If we don't do it soon, the ice will be gone," he said, moving a pawn I hadn't been focused on in the corner of the board. It blocked my bishop.

"What about blocking their thoughts?" I moved my other knight to take his rook. "Check."

He took my knight with his bishop. "You'll never learn to deal with them if you don't expose yourself. I'm not sure blocking will work, exactly. You're going to have to find a way to think around them…focus your mind away from the distractions."

I moved my rook. One more move and I would have him. I could see him analyzing the trap I was setting. After one more quick look, I lifted my hand from the board to run it through my hair and caught the victory in his thoughts. Crap, what had I missed? He was smiling as he leaned down and moved his bishop into position.

"Checkmate." I couldn't take his bishop with mine, because the pawn blocked it, and I couldn't use my knight because that left the queen with a direct line. All the other pieces of consequence were part of my trap on the other side of the board. I flicked my king over, groaning.

"How is it that you ever beat me? You should never be able to beat me!"

He laughed. "You should spend less time watching my mind and more time watching the board. You might do better if you blocked my thoughts instead of trying to use them…they are on my side, after all."

I rolled my eyes. Looking at the clock, I saw it was 10:30. "Should we go for a hunt? I think I'd like to be very well fed before venturing into town."

"Sounds prudent."

Three hours later found us at the edge of the pond I'd seen in Carlisle's memory. The trip through the neighborhood had been uncomfortable, but not overwhelming as it had been when we'd visited my family home. I kept my mind occupied analyzing my mistakes in the chess game. Of course, I shouldn't have moved the rook, but he'd had another piece he could use anyway. He'd outmaneuvered me. The dreams intruded in odd ways as we walked, superimposing themselves on the chessboard, but never completely blotting it out. Carlisle had tried to keep his thoughts quiet, letting me handle the influx of dreams myself, but standing by in case I needed him to step in with a concert to overwhelm my mind. I didn't need him to, but it was reassuring to know he was there.

We laced up our skates and moved to the ice. It was disconcerting at first, much like my first run as a vampire. I noticed my mind adjusting to the speed, calculating the pressure I needed to propel myself forward, and turn; within a minute I was even spinning and leaping, much to Carlisle's amusement.

_Be careful at the far end; there are reeds sticking out of the ice…_

I spun to face him, skating backwards, and rolled my eyes. "Yeah, Carlisle, I know. Vampire vision," I said tapping my temple. I flipped back around racing over to the reeds, then sliding my feet close together and weaving through the reeds expertly on momentum alone, showing off.

He chuckled. "Sorry, Edward. I didn't mean to insult you." He made his way over more leisurely, enjoying the sense of gliding. He was remembering his trip here in December, when he'd watched 12-year-old Alexander skating, and imagined him crashing into the boulder, calculating exactly where his leg would snap before rushing to the ice to catch him. I was continuing my acrobatic antics when his mental image changed to his hands on a plaster cast below the muddy hem of a calico skirt. Then the vision backed up to include an entire girl sitting in a hospital bed. Her brown hair was pulled back with a ribbon, and her hazel eyes were looking at him curiously.

I turned and glided over to him. "Who's that?" I asked. Suddenly the image was gone. Not replaced, just…gone. "How did you do that? Where'd she go?"

"What do you mean?"

"She just vanished. Like, that part of your mind just disappeared."

Carlisle's eyes grew wide. "You can't see her?"

I shook my head. "Who is she?"

He sighed. "She was a patient of mine…almost a decade ago. She broke her leg."

"So I gathered. She looks familiar."

"You've never met."

I skated a circle around him as I studied his stance and his face. He was tense. He was successfully hiding her from me. He'd never been able to close off a part of his mind from me before, and I listened as he pondered how he'd accomplished it. Apparently, he was very motivated. I was almost certain I'd seen her in his thoughts before…what could be so important about her? Just as I was about to ask he interrupted my thoughts.

"How about a race, Edward?"

I stopped and faced him, tilting my head. Did he really think I was still so easily distracted? He faced me calmly, his face impassive. A grin crossed my face. Who did he think he was fooling, exactly? Still, Carlisle didn't ask for privacy very often, and I could be a gentleman.

"You want to race me, old man? Such a glutton."

He smiled. "Your eyes have cleared… I might have a chance now."

I scoffed. "I told you that has nothing to do with it." He tilted his head in challenge. "Fine," I said. "Ten times round the pond, counter-clockwise. First one to touch that elm at the other end of the pond wins." He nodded. "On your mark." He lined his skate up with mine. "Get set!" We both crouched.

"Go!" he said, and he was off.

_Shit._ I sped off, nearly overtaking him when we got to the reeds. He veered sharply to the right, finding a straight if slightly longer path through the stumps of pale yellow vegetation. I took a more meandering path and cleared the reeds just behind him. Now we gathered speed. Ice shards flew as we raced weaving circles around the pond, trying to cut each other off and laughing hysterically. I got ahead of him on the fifth lap, when my raw speed finally overtook his superior footwork. He may not have skated for a century, but he'd apparently been pretty good at it before then. I had several strides on him as we entered the final lap, and I flipped around so I could watch him. The waxing crescent moon cast pallid light on a plume of ice crystals he sent through the air on his final turn, making a pale luminous circular rainbow that I knew human eyes would never see. Suddenly he was almost on me, a gleam in his eye. I quickly spun back around and pushed for the elm. We were shoulder to shoulder and I made a final sprint reaching the trunk a fraction of a second before he did. We both collapsed on our backs in the old crusty snow, laughing and breathing hard; why, I'm not sure. He turned to look at me still laughing.

"I almost had you, cocky bastard…skating backwards." He rolled his eyes. "What caught your attention?"

I shook my head, still grinning.

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and studying my face. "Edward?"

"A rainbow."

His eyes crinkled with amusement. "A rainbow?"

"From the ice spray. And the moon. We're the only ones who can see that, aren't we? It was beautiful."

He rolled back onto his back, tucking his arm under his head and looking up at the glowing crescent.

"There are some advantages to this life," he muttered softly. He was memorizing the moment again, setting the details of this experience with me purposefully into his memory, like part of a collection on a shelf. We were both quiet for a few moments, just enjoying the crisp air and the pale moonlight on the clouds and bare ice-covered tree branches.

"Can we come back tomorrow?" I asked.

He smiled and turned his head to look at me. "Every night until the ice melts," he answered.

I nodded to the sky. "Every night until the ice melts," I agreed.

**A/N I've added the Rachmaninoff music to my profile, but I have it here as well with the irritating spaces… listening to the first one at least will help you understand Edward's reactions.**

**Jorge Bolet / Rachmaninoff Chopin Variations Op. 22**

**www . youtube . com / watch?v=FE1sr4IoJbw (1/3)**

**www . youtube . com / watch?v=ldrUuNoNb0w&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL (2/3)**

**www . youtube . com / watch?v=ZAQX7Dvh1OU&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL (3/3)**

**So, the boys are thinking their time together is coming to an end, and we got our first glimpse of Esme **coughforeshadowingcough** this chapter… Please review and let me know what you think…enjoying the manly times, or looking forward to a woman's touch?**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N So, those of you who reviewed Chapter 13 received a little surprise…a chance to read an AU alternate ending to the chapter *coughslashcough*! I intend to write (canon!) outtakes from Esme's point of view once she arrives, rather than include her POV in the chapters, and deliver them to you in a similar manner. They might not occur every chapter, but they will be frequent. I received enough feedback on "Variations on a Theme" that I may get it in shape as a one-shot, but I'm not sure when. I do not intend to write other AU scenes for Prelude, or revisit the Variations versions of Edward and Carlisle…it was just a bit of fun to celebrate the near end of the manly times…**

**Thanks to my amazing beta, Coleen561, as well as Zoya Zalan, StormDragonfly and Malianani; they all chatted with me about the characters or universe and inspired things that ended up in this chapter. **

**Stephenie Meyer owns the boys, I just write about them.**

EPOV

Winter melted into spring, and Carlisle and I regretfully hung up our ice skates. I'd finally grown used to the influx of disembodied dream-thoughts as we traveled through the sleeping neighborhoods, and Carlisle felt it was time to up the ante. We began to take evening strolls through the park.

It was completely surreal. For seven and a half months, Carlisle had been the only person I'd spoken to or seen. Any other thoughts I'd heard had been the dreams of unseen, unknown people. I'd smelled humans, but not as individuals, just as residue on the wind or on Carlisle's clothes. Now they were all around me. Yet, I felt like I was looking at marionettes, not real people. I couldn't smell them — Carlisle advised that I hold my breath for the time being. As a vampire, the sense of smell was vital. I'd grown to rely on it so much that the mere fact that I could see them and not smell them made the people in the park seem unreal. I could hear their heartbeats and the whooshing of blood through their arteries. It made my venom surge, but it still didn't quite make them seem real. Just tempting optical illusions…mirages.

Their thoughts barely helped. After being linked to Carlisle's complex, organized mind exclusively for so long, it seemed amazing to me that these humans…all these humans…had such simple and similar thoughts. It would be almost easy to be around them, if their thoughts weren't so banal half the time. The only real struggle was that there were so many of them… I had to work at trying to lower the volume of the din, just so there was room in my head for my own thoughts.

Carlisle fed me a stream of thoughts to remind me of all the human characteristics I needed to mimic: _lift your chest like your breathing, nod at people, smile, put your hand in your pocket for a few minutes, take it back out, scratch the bridge of your nose_. At first I thought it was ridiculous. Really, did they move like this? Fidget and clear their throats and shift their weight as they stood around? But they _did_. And as I watched them, I became self-conscious when I wasn't doing those things too. It wasn't second nature, the way it was for Carlisle… I swear he fidgeted all on his own, even when there were no humans watching…he couldn't help himself. He was only a vampire when we were at home…otherwise his façade was so natural he didn't even realize that it descended over him. My façade? Not very natural. I was constantly reminding myself to shift my weight, scratch my ear, or clear my throat, but with time at least Carlisle could stop reminding me.

It took a month for me to be comfortable just with that: merely walking and seeing them while hearing their blood and their thoughts. After another two weeks, I was able to breathe around them, but couldn't speak, for all the venom I constantly had to swallow.

Eventually, I graduated to the post office. Carlisle let me walk into the building with him, give the clerk our names, and carefully take the post without touching the human's hand. Mr. Pierce's hand — it was important to refer to them by name; it made them sound less like dinner. So, without touching Mr. Pierce's hand. That would be too much temptation for now…if I could actually feel the warmth of the blood, it might undo all our careful work. And again I was swallowing a mouthful of venom. All I did anymore was hunt, walk among humans, and play piano to recover mentally from being around them. It felt like it was taking forever, but it _was_ easier every day.

After visiting the post office and library a few times, where I'd had successful — if extremely limited — conversations with humans without venom drooling down my chin, we decided we couldn't put off Mr. Campbell any longer.

"Edward, are you coming?" Carlisle called up the stairs to me.

"It's this suit you bought," I muttered, putting the collar up again.

Carlisle was at my door in an instant. "What about it?"

"This collar isn't what I'm used to, and I can't get my tie to lie flat," I said, yanking the tie loose again.

"You never learned to knot a tie?" he asked, reaching for it to help. I swatted him away, much to his amusement.

"I'm sure I did. Retaining the knowledge of a double Windsor hasn't been high on my list of priorities." I was frustrated, my newborn sensibilities causing me to blow this minor set back completely out of proportion. I _knew_ I was overreacting, but I still didn't hide my irritation.

"Here," Carlisle said calmly, unfastening his own tie. "Watch me." He knotted his tie…ah, there's where I made my mistake. I mimicked his motions and got my own in a presentable knot, sighing at how these little things still upset me.

"It's perfectly normal," Carlisle said, noting my frustrated exhale.

I glared at him. "What, can you read my thoughts, old man? I thought that was my job…"

"Not your thoughts, Edward, just your face."

I ignored him and folded my collar down.

"Edward." I could feel Carlisle's gaze as I watched myself in the mirror, fiddling with the tie.

_Edward._

I finally met his eyes in the mirror, and then turned to face him properly, dropping my hands to my side. He put a hand on my shoulder and looked into my face.

"You're going to be fine. You just fed, you've done really well all week, and you look the part. There's no reason for him to think you are anything other than what you present."

"Unless I drain him."

"You won't drain him. You can do this, Edward. I would put off the meeting if I didn't think you could."

"It's just…" I looked away, trying to decide why this felt so much more frightening than what we'd tried in the past. "I know him. We've been corresponding for months. If I do anything to hurt him…"

"You won't," Carlisle reassured. He looked at his watch. "We need to go if we're going to get you acclimated to the scents before you have to carry on a conversation." He handed me my hat, and I put it on, raising my eyebrows at him.

"Very dapper," he smiled.

That first meeting was excruciating. Mr. Campbell was no more tempting than anyone else, but we were in his closed, small office for thirty minutes as we looked over the final paperwork and each of us signed the auction details. Carlisle's signature would be needed for a few more weeks; he was still my legal guardian. Mr. Campbell described the actions he'd taken on my behalf, the money raised by the estate sale, and the clearing of the property for lessees; I'd made it clear earlier that I did not intend to live in the house for the time being. The human aroma got thicker and thicker as he spoke. I could almost _see_ it on the air — I thought I was going to lose my mind. I felt myself slowly stiffen, and through Carlisle's mind, saw my eyes darken. I managed to hold it together, though. I told Mr. Campbell I was suddenly feeling unwell, and that I would write with any additional questions when I got home and rested. Carlisle helped make our excuses, and we were out of there and on our way to the forest and a very necessary hunt in a matter of minutes.

As soon as we entered the trees, I felt better. Though I was frustrated that I'd only been able to last a half hour in his presence, I also felt proud that I'd made some reasonable excuse and gotten out before I became dangerous. Mr. Campbell's mind was untroubled by the abrupt end to our meeting, the most vital actions had been taken care of, and he was not the least bit suspicious. Carlisle was exceptionally pleased…his mind absolutely glowed with my achievement. I told him I thought he was being a little too positive about it, but caught glimpses of ancient memories of newborns who hadn't shown such restraint before he was able to get his thoughts under control. I grimaced.

"You're right," I joked, speeding toward the scent of a deer. "I'm the pinnacle of control."

Several days later I was going through my sheet music as dawn slowly changed the light in the music room from blue to grey to gold. I needed something new to play. I listened for a moment to determine where Carlisle was writing this morning… the corporate office. I headed to the attic, seeing him raise a finger as I entered through the window so he could finish writing his sentence before I spoke. He was writing to a doctor.

"Who's Dr. Anderson?"

"A colleague in Boston," he answered looking up and smiling. I waited for him to elaborate, but he was keeping his mind very focused on the wording of his next sentence… enquiring about a university class. "Did you need something?"

"More music," I said. "I was wondering if you were going into town today."

"I need to go to the post office," he said, continuing to write as he spoke. "We could stop by Scott's Music. I'm sure they'd be happy to meet you finally, and you could peruse their selections yourself. Oh, and they have a grand piano." He signed his name and waved the letter idly to dry the ink. "I've been meaning to suggest it for a few days, but thought you deserved a break."

I pondered his suggestion. I hadn't really planned to go in myself, but he was right; it was time I ventured out again. I even had a bit of my own money — funds my father had put in an account in my name that weren't tied up in probate. I walked back to the window and looked out. The sunrise was clear in the east, but heavy clouds were coming in from the west…it would probably be safe to go out in a few hours.

"Let's go for a hunt when you're done with your letters, and then we'll see if the weather has cooperated."

Four hours later we were well fed, in our suits, and walking though a neighborhood I hadn't visited before. Carlisle was leading, and I recognized from his thoughts that we were actually not that far from the park, just approaching from the other side, since we'd been to the post office first. And then suddenly, Carlisle stopped, opened a door, and ushered me in.

His memories did not do the place justice. Light streamed in from windows high on the walls, illuminating dust motes that danced and flitted on air currents caused by the short man at the huge piano in the center of the room. The air was thick with music, and the walls were lined with shelf after shelf of boxes, each with letters and dates on the sides. I knew they were stuffed with sheet music. Shorter displays were scattered throughout the room with headings of instruments and musical genres: violin concertos, harpsichord minuets, piano preludes, and so on. Despite the fact that a human sat at the piano in the middle of the space, the overwhelming scents were paper, dust and the wood, lemon oil and metal strings of the piano. It smelled like heaven, and I knew Carlisle was going to have to drag me out of there. I grinned at him as the closing door caused a jingle of bells, and the man I knew must be Mr. Scott abruptly ceased playing and turned in our direction.

"Mr. Cullen! What a delight! I was not expecting you this week… oh, and can this be our young Mr. Masen?" His eyes grew wide and he stood, stepping away from the piano. Carlisle was about to introduce us, but I cut him off, feeling as though I already knew the man.

"Mr. Scott," I said, stepping forward to shake his hand. "Please don't let us interrupt your playing."

"Nonsense! I was just testing the tuning job they did on it earlier." He shook my hand, startled momentarily by the temperature of my skin. "And if I might be so bold, how are you recovering, Mr. Masen?"

"Very well, thank you, other than the lingering circulatory problems," I said, nodding toward my cold hands. "I want to thank you for sending me all that wonderful music by way of Carlisle. It was really a lifesaver when I was feeling so ill. It gave me reason to get up every morning." As I said the words I knew they were true. For all the help Carlisle had given me, I would still be a wreck if I hadn't also had the music to wrap my new larger mind around.

"I was happy to help." Mr. Scott looked at once pleased and self-conscious.

"This is not the same instrument that was here last month," Carlisle observed, saving us from an awkward moment.

"Quite right, Mr. Cullen. That was sold last week. My brother just sent this one over from the warehouse last night. He runs the 'real' family business downtown. This…" he motioned around the room, "is just my little side project."

"And we're very grateful for it," Carlisle said, smiling.

"What were you playing just now?" I asked. "It was lovely…"

"Ah, that was Paderewski's Minuet in G…have you heard it before?"

"No," I said. "Would you finish it?"

"Certainly, if you'll play next," he said smiling. I nodded, and he proceeded to play a short but charming piece. The tonal quality coming from the piano was amazing. I loved my piano, but I had to admit that this instrument made it sound like a toy. I walked the length of it as he played, watching the strings in the open box. They vibrated deliciously, sending taut sound waves through the shimmering, golden air — steeping the atmosphere with passion, despite the light nature of the music played. I could only imagine how rich and anguished the etudes would sound coming from this glorious instrument…

When he finished, Mr. Scott stood. "The piano bench is all yours, Mr. Masen. Do you need me to pull some sheet music for you?"

"Uh," I looked at Carlisle, but decided that this wasn't a problem… musicians memorized music all the time. "That's okay…I think I remember a few pieces in their entirety…" I sat down and pretended to contemplate what I would play, adjusting the bench and running my fingers quickly over the ivory, running scales, testing the movement and balance of the keys.

I started with Chopin's Ocean Etude, and the air trembled with the cresting waves of notes. Then I switched to a more jubilant Bach. Finally, I played the Rachmaninoff that the Scotts had given me for Christmas. I noticed Mr. Scott walk over to Carlisle and lean against the bookcases. They whispered together occasionally, but mostly just listened. Mr. Scott's mind betrayed amazement; Carlisle's betrayed amusement. Partway through the ninth variation, another mind intruded. The thoughts in this one were unfamiliar and gushing…irritating. I looked up as I played to see a girl of about sixteen standing behind the counter. When our eyes met, her mind went absolutely crazy, almost vulgar, with thoughts of me. My fingers stumbled minutely, and Carlisle's head snapped up, worried. I made it to the end of the ninth variation, and stopped, claiming I couldn't be certain that I'd remember the rest. Mr. Scott applauded and smiled warmly as he approached the piano again. The girl, Luciana, I gleaned from her father's mind, was applauding as well, and practically bouncing on her toes, her mind full of fantasy now: her view of me, of what we could be, of what we could _do_…

I pinched the bridge of my nose momentarily as Mr. Scott thanked me for playing. As quietly as I could, I whispered, "Carlisle, the Mozart…remember the Mozart." He'd been observing me carefully since my fingers had uncharacteristically stumbled.

_Mozart? Do you want to buy some Mozart while we are here?_

I shook my head slightly, looked up and smiled at Mr. Scott, and then allowed my gaze to drift toward Carlisle as Mr. Scott praised my playing. "Remember the Mozart concert," I said too softly and quickly for the humans to hear, barely moving my mouth.

_The Mozart concert? Then you need…oh…Oh! _Immediately the familiar concert began in his mind, and Luciana's thoughts receded somewhat from my conscious mind. I took a steadying breath and gave Carlisle a quick nod of thanks before speaking to Mr. Scott again.

"It's a beautiful instrument. I've never heard its equal…not that I have extensive experience," I admitted.

"What do you play at home?" he asked.

I smiled. "A 1912 Adam Schaaf, upright. It's my pride and joy…"

He grinned. "A very well made piano and native to Chicago…do you have the butterfly veneer?" I nodded. "Ah," he sighed appreciatively, "they are so handsome…"

"Sometimes I like to just admire it from across the room," I agreed.

He laughed. "They're very striking, but a bit temperamental. How often do you have to tune it?"

"I tune it daily."

"_Daily?_" he asked, and I knew this had been a mistake to admit. I groaned internally.

"I'm rather particular, and we live in an older home; the temperature fluctuations are hard on the piano. It doesn't take long…"

"Well, as lovely as your Adam Schaaf is, I have to say, your playing is definitely worthy of the 'Instrument of the Immortals'…. and I have no doubt it would hold its tune better."

Carlisle choked and coughed behind me. _What did he say? What does he know?_ But I heard nothing fearful or revelatory in Mr. Scott's mind.

Still, I couldn't help my eyes widening slightly. "I beg your pardon?" I asked, keeping my face as impassive as possible.

"That's the new ad campaign for Steinway's Concert Grand, the piano you're sitting at. So many of the world's greatest pianists will perform _only_ on this type of piano…your Mr. Rachmaninoff, for instance… that Steinway and Sons have incorporated the preference into their publicity. I haven't seen the advertisement in the newspaper yet, but we've received some leaflets for the shop." He pointed to a framed poster that hung by the door. It did indeed say 'Instrument of the Immortals' on it. I smirked and looked at Carlisle, who had recovered from his shock and now had a gleam in his eye. He was actually shaking slightly with suppressed, relieved laughter.

_You do have a birthday coming up…_

I rolled my eyes.

_I think it must be a sign…_

I shook my head slightly, but couldn't help grinning.

"Is something funny, Mr. Masen?" Mr. Scott enquired.

"I was just imagining this lovely instrument in our farmhouse…I think we'd have to move every other scrap of furniture out to the barn. It must be ten feet long."

"Eight feet, eleven inches," said Mr. Scott, smiling. "It does require a bit of space, but the rewards of having such an instrument must be great…"

"Immortality?" I asked, grinning.

Mr. Scott laughed. "I think in most cases the immortality comes first."

"Doesn't it always," I muttered under my breath, and saw Carlisle shake with mirth again.

"I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss pianos, though. How can I help you gentlemen today? Beethoven? Liszt? Debussy? Chabrier?"

"Yes?" I answered with a grin.

"Edward is in need of new music, and decided that he's well enough to choose it himself. And I rather think he was hoping to get lost in your boxes for a while," Carlisle said, nodding at the shelves along the wall.

Mr. Scott smiled broadly. "Well, I think we can accommodate that. Come, I'll show you how things are organized, and you can have the run of the place."

We stayed in the shop for the better part of three hours. Mr. Scott was a wealth of knowledge, and clearly enjoyed talking with me about my musical preferences. After discussing the virtues of some of my favorite pieces, he had many recommendations, and let me try them out on the Steinway before purchasing them. I purposely stumbled over the notes a bit, not wanting to draw too much attention to my ease of playing. I had to admit it was a glorious piano; I was sad to realize that I would never feel quite the same way about my upright again.

There was only one moment, when a family came in, that my thirst really started to bother me. I immediately went to the piano, hoping it would distract me. Carlisle saw me tense and came over to stand behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder as I played and thinking how well I was doing. It worked, and the moment passed, but it was time to make our purchases and leave.

We bid Mr. Scott farewell…as well as Luciana… and made our way out onto the street. As soon as I took a breath of fresh air the burn in my throat faded, much to my relief.

"You can stop the concert now, Carlisle," I said, and it ceased immediately.

"Whose thoughts were troubling you?"

"The girl's. Oh god, Carlisle, it was awful. I had no idea that such a young girl could have such wretched, wretched thoughts." I glared at him as he tried to hide his smile. "It's not funny!"

"So, I take it she has a mild crush on you?"

"If that's what it's called. It went on and on, and got more and more detailed. And I did nothing to encourage her," I exclaimed.

"Oh, but you did."

I stopped and stared at him. "What?" I asked incredulously.

"You were handsome and brooding and played the piano well. She could hardly be expected to restrain herself."

I scowled as he fought his smile. "Does this happen to you?" As soon as the words were out of my mouth I could see in his thoughts that it did indeed happen to him, on a regular basis. Every time he arrived at a new place as a young, handsome, single doctor… how did Jane Austen put it? "…a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife…"

"Why do you think I prefer Catholic hospitals? The nuns are much less obvious in their infatuations. We are designed to attract our prey — humans — and attract them we do. It can be rather irritating," he grimaced.

"Imagine if you could actually hear it all," I groaned.

"Yes, that would be worse than the looks and unnecessary touches. More incentive for you to practice tuning them out."

"Hmm," I agreed grimly. Then I noticed something across the street. "Carlisle, let's go in there."

He followed my gaze. "You want to go to a portrait studio?"

"Yes, let's have our picture taken." For a moment he wondered why, and then he understood. It would be a reminder of this chapter in our lives, that each of us could hang in our future study or music room to accompany the other remembrances of our lives…it could commemorate our time together, after that time was over. Carlisle was envisioning where he would put it among the paintings and prints on the biography wall of his study. He looked across the street again.

"You want to do it now? Aren't you ready for a drink?"

"I'm fine. And we're in our dapper suits. Come on, Carlisle," I urged quietly. "It's a much more reasonable birthday present than a Steinway."

He laughed, his eyes crinkling, and then he looked at me rather sheepishly. "You'll be my first photograph." It was true…everything else on his study wall was a work of art.

I slapped his shoulder as we started across the street. "Welcome to the twentieth century, old man."

We had to argue with the photographer before he'd let us smile for the picture. "You won't be able to hold it long enough…they never come out right." He really had no idea. We convinced him that we'd pay for the photo whether it came out or not, and allowed him take one of us not smiling as well, just to be safe. When we returned several days later to pick up the prints, he admitted we'd been right: the smiling portrait was perfect. I looked forward to making a frame for it.

The next several weeks passed quickly and pleasantly. When we were at home, I was busy at my piano, and he was busy writing letters, mostly to hospitals in different parts of the country… I couldn't be bothered to pay attention…I really wasn't that interested in medicine, and my last visit to a hospital had been rather unpleasant.

We continued to go into town every day and into Scott's Music once a week. I was trying to determine if there was a time of day when Luciana wasn't there, but I had no such luck.

Finally my birthday arrived, and we went down to Mr. Campbell's office. Since I was finally of age, Carlisle did not come into the office with me, waiting instead in the lobby.

"Mr. Masen, most of this should look very similar to the previous version of the documents. We just have two additional items we need to go over. First, with an estate of this size we need to write up a Last Will and Testament for you."

"A Will?" Would the irony never cease? A Will for the immortal…

"Yes, sir. You have sizable bank accounts, two properties with associated furnishings and incidentals…if you don't specify inheritance in a legal document, it will all go to your nearest relation, a Mr. Philip Masen of Colorado, whom I understand you've never met."

"My father and his nephew weren't close," I said. "Wait… two properties? I don't own two properties."

"Ah, that's the other matter. I need you to sign this revised ledger sheet adding the house off Huntingston Lane, the associated barn, and 80 acres of forest to your assets. You can see here," he pointed, "that you also have additional cash necessary to pay the initial income tax, and here you can see there is no mortgage. You will have to pay annual property taxes on it, but your rent on the other property should more than cover the taxes on both. You could also harvest the forest if you wanted, in order to fund the two properties separately…"

"I don't understand; this is Carlisle's property…I just live there at the moment."

Mr. Campbell looked surprised. "I received a letter from a Mr. Jackson last week stipulating that Mr. Cullen was gifting you the property. All the paperwork was in order. I assumed you were aware of the transaction."

"I need to talk to Carlisle privately before I can sign this," I said, tossing the ledger sheet back on the desk.

"Certainly. Use my office. I'll send him in and wait in the lobby."

He left the room, and a moment later there was a quiet knock at the door. "Edward?" Carlisle asked softly as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes. I can't take your house, Carlisle."

"Oh, that," he said awkwardly. "Happy birthday?"

"Be serious, Carlisle. My finances are fine. If I wasn't going to let you buy me another piano, I certainly am not going to let you buy me a house. It's ridiculous."

He sat down in the chair next to me. "I didn't give it to you because I was worried about your finances. I agree, as long as you're reasonable in your expenditures and invest wisely, you won't have any problems, whether you decide to have a career or not. I just thought you might like to stay somewhere familiar for a while. You know this area, you have the Scotts to visit and talk music with, your piano is already in the house, and with me gone, you _could_ move all the other furniture to the barn and get the Steinway if you wanted…being a nomad can be quite lonely, and I thought you might like to have another option. I can't use the house anyway, after your training is done and we…part ways," Carlisle said, stumbling over his words.

"Why? You don't have to let me kick you out of your home, Carlisle."

He smiled sadly. "I would have been moving on by now anyway, Edward. I've been a physician in Chicago for the better part of a decade. I can't reenter the medical field here, and after a year of companionship, I'm going to need to practice medicine to stay sane after you leave. It makes more sense for me to move somewhere and reset my clock, as it were…become a 23-year old resident or a 25-year old doctor so I can stay in one place for a while. I'm not a very convincing 35-year old, I'm afraid. I just thought, since I can't use the house anymore, perhaps you'd like to. Honestly, I thought you knew," he said, tapping his temple. "I've been writing the letters when you've been in the house…"

That's what I get for tuning him out when he writes. He was right, it all made sense. And it hadn't really occurred to me that if I became a nomad I wouldn't have a piano anymore…at least I could visit this one if I owned the property. It just didn't feel right, though. Where was he going to go? Could he afford to buy a new house, if he didn't sell this one?

"What about your finances? Should I…I don't know…_pay_ you for the house?" It would be a stretch for me, but I could probably manage it.

"Don't be ridic… um, no, that's not necessary."

I smiled slightly…he was so careful using that word around me now.

"My finances are quite healthy as well," he continued. "And people will insist on paying me a salary for being a doctor. I'd rather know you had it. And when I get settled I can write you and let you know my new address. I…I was rather hoping we might stay in touch."

My stomach dropped, and I looked at the floor, resting my elbows on my knees. I'd known this was coming. After all, I was the one who had insisted that we only agree to be together a year. When we'd agreed to it, it had seemed like an eternity. I hadn't understood at the time how I could even stand to be with him _that_ long. I hadn't understood how I was going to survive in this new life day to day. I'd been in so much pain for so long… but now things were comfortable, and looking out over eternity as a vampire, a year seemed like a very, very short time. I hadn't been thinking about the end of training, worrying instead about actually succeeding at it, but I couldn't deny anymore that the end was coming. And with it, more change. Great. I pinched the bridge of my nose, and tried to collect myself. The idea of being on my own had seemed vague and distant for so long, but now it suddenly felt very real in the face of Carlisle's plans, and it was throwing me off balance. I could not let my emotions spin out of control here…it was too dangerous. I could wallow later at home, and try to figure out what I was feeling.

"Unless you'd rather not," Carlisle said, so quietly that I almost didn't hear him. _What?_ I looked up into his sad face and thought back to the last thing said before my long silence. Oh.

"No, Carlisle," I reassured, grasping his shoulder as he so often touched mine. "It's not that at all. Of course we'll keep in touch. It's just…I guess I've been so focused on the actual training, this sort of crept up on me. So, all the letters you've been writing to hospitals…"

"I've been looking for positions."

"In Boston?"

"Probably not. That's a teaching hospital, and they'd want me at the beginning of the semester. I'd prefer more flexibility, I think."

I looked down at the floor again. "When are you planning on leaving?" Even I could hear the pain in my voice.

Carlisle tilted his head, studying me. He was confused. He thought this is what I wanted, and didn't understand my reactions. I didn't understand them either.

"Not until you're ready. There are still some skills I need to train you in. I'm looking at positions that start in the fall, but have flexible start dates."

"What skills?"

He looked at the door; I could hear Mr. Campbell pacing in the lobby too. "We should probably wait until we get home to talk about that."

"Okay, send him in, let's get this over with," I said nodding at the door. Carlisle continued to study me for a moment, trying to understand the pain he was seeing, and then moved to the door. "And Carlisle?"

He turned. "Yes, Edward?"

"Thank you for the house."

He gave me a smile, though it did not quite reach his worried eyes. "You're welcome, Edward."

Mr. Campbell returned, and I signed the ledger sheet.

"And the Will?" he asked.

"Any property or possessions should go to Carlisle. He's the only one who will care about them. As far as the money goes…" I thought for a moment. "If I give it to someone, can I stipulate how it's used?"

"As long as it does not end up costing the recipient more than they will inherit. Remember they will have to pay taxes on it."

"Okay, so let's give a third of the cash to Carlisle to help cover the any costs associated with inheriting the properties, and then give the rest to Giovanni Scott of Scott's Music on Chicago Avenue. Stipulate that a portion will fund an annuity that will be used to provide sheet music to deserving music students who can't afford it, amounting to at least, I don't know, $200 per year…that's about 500 pieces of sheet music. Mr. Scott can determine the details of how that's accomplished. How much of the inheritance does that obligate?" I asked.

He made some calculations. "About a third."

"Okay, that's it then."

"Give me ten minutes to type this up, and you can finish signing the documents."

When he came back I signed the Will, and a document giving Mr. Jackson permission to transfer the majority of my assets to my newly formed corporation, which he would be managing. I took possession of some bank paperwork and a checkbook for a small account that would be retained in my name. Mr. Campbell shook my hand, and I was a legal adult…albeit a vampire… in possession of my inheritance, and no longer Carlisle's ward, though still his student for the time being.

"Everything okay?" Carlisle asked when I entered the lobby.

"Yes, sorry it took so long. We had to write a Will."

"Indeed? How did that go?"

"Just fine." I handed him my copy. "Let's go," I said as he started reading, "I need to eat."

"Edward, this was very generous of you," he said as we got to the street and started toward home. It was my home now…

I shrugged. "The least I could do really. I guess it's all theoretical, though, since I can't die."

"Oh, you can die. Not of a disease, perhaps, but you can be destroyed. That's part of what I need to train you in: combat. The nomads of our kind are not always friendly. And," he paused as we passed some other pedestrians and then continued in a whisper, "there's the Volturi…if you catch their attention, they can be…difficult. Now that your control is good, and I don't need an upper hand, I really need to teach you to defend yourself. Of course, you have a natural advantage…"

"Not that it helped me during my first fight," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

He smiled. "Most of your opponents won't be aware of your gift, and won't be trying to hide their thoughts behind a Scottish…"

"Don't even _talk_ about that reel!" I glowered. "So, combat techniques. What else is left?"

"Volturi law and damage control."

"Damage control?"

"Yes, for when things go wrong. The most important rule, as far as the Volturi are concerned, is that there can be no evidence of our kind. If you are revealed, or take a life, you must destroy the evidence. We cannot leave direct evidence of any kind. In some ways, even the photograph we took was risky. It links us, so if one of us is shown to be an immortal, the other would be at risk."

We entered the edge of the forest now, and ran in silence as I considered his words. As the house came into view, I finally said, "But you agreed to the picture. If it's so dangerous, why did you agree?"

"The risk is low," he answered, "and… well, I'm a bit sentimental at times." I shook my head and smiled at him: _that_ was an understatement. "Speaking of which, I have something for you," he said as he opened the door and let us into the parlor.

I set my paperwork down on a table. "What?" I asked, removing my overcoat.

"A birthday present."

"Carlisle, you've given me a house and 80 acres of forest…I think you're covered as far as birthday presents are concerned."

"Nonetheless, I have something else." He went to his study and returned a moment later with a small box. "The house you may find inconvenient at some point, and wish to sell. And you should absolutely sell it, if that suits your needs. It is merely a place for you to live until you decide you are ready to leave Chicago and you know where you want to go next. It's not truly a personal gift. This, on the other hand," he said handing me the box, "you may take with you when you go."

I took the box from him, hesitating as I thought about what he said. I had told him months ago that I didn't wish to leave Chicago, that it had always been my home. Did I still feel that way? So many of my memories had faded that he was probably right; I probably would be ready to leave at some point…see the world, not in war, as I'd always imagined, but just…see it. After all, he wouldn't be here to hold me to this place, and neither was my family. I let out a slight sigh, and his worried thoughts intruded mine. I looked up at him and gave a small smile, shaking my head to show that everything was fine. I opened the box and saw a small ring with a crest. I looked down at his hand.

"It's like yours."

He nodded. "It's a signet ring with my family crest. You can use it to make an impression in wax to seal letters, though that's rather old fashioned now. I don't expect you to wear it," he said quickly, "I just want you to…to _have_ it. I understand your desire to be on your own, and I respect it, but I want you to know that you aren't alone. If you ever need to feel like you belong someplace for a while…I want you to remember that I'm out there and you're always welcome. You've become my closest friend, and the nearest thing I've had to family in centuries. So please accept it — as a reminder that you have a place, if you need it, or even if you just want to visit a friendly face."

I looked at the ring, and immediately thought of my parents' wedding rings tucked in the drawer in my room upstairs. It would somehow feel disloyal to wear Carlisle's ring when I didn't wear my parents', but I was really glad to have it.

"Thank you, Carlisle. I don't know what to say…" I looked up at him in time to see the relieved smile spread across his face. He'd been worried that I'd take this as a sign of his old view of me as his surrogate son. His intentions were actually much simpler, yet layered in complexity: he saw me as family, but in a slippery way, sliding between confidante, brother, nephew, son, student, teacher, and friend. It was a truer version of what we'd become to each other. "I'll treasure it," I finally finished.

"Good," he said, the relief and happiness palpable in his voice. "Happy Birthday, Edward. How would you like to spend the rest of the evening? Music? Chess? A run? There is a meteor shower peaking at 3 a.m., and it should be a clear night. Do you know your constellations?"

I grinned. "I know some of them, but I'll bet you know more, and I bet you know all the myths associated with them." He tilted his head in agreement. "Let's change out of our suits and go for a hunt… then I'll play piano until the stars are ready to perform."

Hours later I was in my room, looking at the ring Carlisle had given me. I slipped it onto my finger, and then quickly removed it. I rolled it through my fingers, thinking. Finally, I opened a drawer and dug through the boxes of jewelry there until I found the wedding rings and my mother's necklace. I unclasped the chain and removed the pendent, placing it back in the box. I threaded the chain through my father's wedding band and the Cullen signet ring, and refastened the chain around my neck. The weight of the rings on my chest felt foreign, but rather pleasant. This would do, for now.

_Edward, are you coming up to the roof? It's nearly time…_

I tucked the rings into my shirt and shut the drawer. "I'm on my way, Carlisle."

**A/N Prelude has been nominated in the Sunflower Awards. Nominations are ending soon, and voting will follow. The link is on my profile, if you'd like to support Prelude or any of the other wonderful stories in that contest.**

**I'll put all these on my profile for one-click service:**

**The Instrument of The Immortals was a real ad campaign, which started in 1919, and was one of the 10 most successful of the 20****th**** century. To this day, Steinway keeps a list of "Immortals" on its webpage (Edward, for whatever reason, is not listed.) Here is an example: www . flickr . com / photos / 55449539 N08 / 5669992613/**

**Adam Schaaf made pianos in Chicago from 1885 to 1920. The company did not survive the depression. Here is Edward's piano: www . flickr . com / photos / 55449539 N08 / 5670560844 /**

**You can buy your very own 1919 Steinway Concert Grand (refurbished) for the low, low price of $85k. Come on…you know you want to. www . lindebladpiano . com / 1919-Steinway-Piano-Model-D-201634 . asp?Id=239. Yes, it really is that long.**

**Paderewski recorded his Minuet in G major in May of 1917 in New York. **

**www . youtube . com / watch?v=0zijCdFjQlA**

**Please review... I love to hear your thoughts. You never know when it might earn you an outtake, or inspire an idea that ends up in a chapter. Follow me on Twitter at ATONAU if you want to chat, or see where I am with the next chapter. And thanks so very, very much for reading.**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N Since SM published her Guide in the middle of my story, I thought I'd better say a word or two about "canon." My story, which is outlined in its entirety, is to my knowledge consistent with the canon presented in the books and summarized on the twilight lexicon timeline (as it stood when I began). The books are full of vague timing: "about ten years after my change" and so on, which afforded me a certain flexibility. Now SM has filled in some more details in her Guide, but I've already created my timeline. So my dates will not always jibe exactly with those in the new Guide. I know this, and you don't need to correct me. In some cases, it's because I want the boys at a specific historic event, which wasn't inconsistent with the timeline originally, and is too important to change now. In some cases it's because SM's choices don't seem well thought out. The guide has Rose's change in both 1931 and 1933 (no wonder she's so grumpy…had to burn twice, apparently). Anyway, my story is canon, as far as the characters are concerned, as far as the arc of events is concerned, and as far as the spirit of the story is concerned. It does not match up with every date listed in the Guide. I'm okay with that.**

**Thanks to wonderbeta Coleen561, fellow author peeps Zoya Zalan, Malianani and WoodLily for WCs and feedback, Zoya Zalan again for a fab musical consult, and all my Twitter friends for encouragement. SM owns these boys. **

Chapter 15

EPOV

Red eyes blazed at me from across the clearing. She was snarling, snapping; she was not going to back down. I crouched, waiting, watching her muscles twitch; as an afterthought, I sniffed the air to make sure she was alone. Finally, a screech, and she rushed me, all fury and strength and the impatience of youth. She lunged, and I grabbed her right wrist and twisted it behind her, sinking my teeth into her shoulder to start the tear. I forced her wrist up, wrenching her arm off with a shattering sound and tossing it aside. She screamed in pain, and twisted from my grasp. Expletives fell from her lips like gushing blood. This was dangerous; her screams could attract attention. She lunged again, her teeth grazing my arm and her muddy hand scratching my face as I turned to meet her thrust, using her momentum to twist her so her back was to my chest. Venom oozed from her open wound onto my arm as I wrapped it around her chest, bracing my hand on her far shoulder. I lowered my lips to her neck…to that intimate curve where it joined her shoulder. She froze, tension mounting in her body. To an onlooker, we would appear to be lovers suspended in the moment before a fiery, passionate encounter. But I had a different fire in mind for her.

She screamed, and I silenced it, tearing her flesh open with my teeth as I rent her head from her shoulders. The sound of her neck tearing was like dishes crashing. The breath continued to flow from her lungs, but the shrill, piercing screech was replaced by the gurgling of air and venom. Her wide eyes watched the sputtering fountain of her neck, and her mouth gaped. I tossed her head aside, and quickly quartered the rest of her body, throwing the limbs in one heap and her torso with her head. I piled brush and grasses on a dry rocky outcrop, removed my tinderbox from my pocket, and started a blaze. By the time I had finished, her arms had traveled half the distance to her torso, but they were not quick enough. I tossed her head into the fire, watching the hair shrivel in the flame before it reached her skin and flared, sending billows of purple smoke into the air. Her wandering limbs were next, and finally her torso. The putrid smoke burned my throat and caused venom to well in my eyes. And though it would appear that I was suffering emotionally, nothing could be further from the truth. As the fire died and her ashes cooled, I felt only relief.

"Edward?"

The clearing dissolved from view as I focused on Carlisle's face, vaguely surprised to find it clean and his eyes clear.

"When did that happen?" I asked after fully bringing myself into the present.

"1807. I'd treated a boy who had witnessed her attack on a village north of Vienna, and she saw me as a threat to her food source and a risk of exposure. She wanted to kill me and the boy I treated. I spoke with her several times, but she refused to move on. She was determined to destroy me. There was nothing to do but destroy her first. Do you have any questions about what you saw? Do you understand the force required, and the best angles to use for dismembering?"

I nodded, still shocked that Carlisle could speak so calmly about this memory.

"Was that your first kill?" I asked.

"No," he smiled ruefully, "but it was my cleanest."

Others flashed through his mind now and I could see the mistakes: insufficient force resulting in the opponent ducking out of the hold, too shallow an angle on the pull of the head, causing the tear to be incomplete, using the ear as a handle — which did not help remove the head, but did make the opponent scream with fury. Carlisle's thoughts returned to a class setting, rows of vampires facing off in controlled battle simulations. Carlisle's were the only amber eyes in the group.

For weeks he had been remembering aspects of his time with the Volturi in detail. Carlisle'd been forced to study from numerous instructors while he'd remained in the castle, each with a different style and emphasis. However, there was only one that he thought he'd learned anything useful from. Eleazar was in some respects a walking contradiction. As shown through Carlisle's memories, he was essentially gentle spirit, forced to kill for sustenance and occasionally to defend himself from his own kind. He didn't shrink from it, but he didn't revel in it either.

"He was the closest thing I could find to a kindred spirit in that place," Carlisle explained. "He was always insistent on efficiency: not suffering, not revenge, not glory. If a death were necessary, then he wanted it done as quickly and neatly as possible. He could read the landscape for tactical advantages better than anyone I've ever met. But what's more, his gift is to read the gifts of others, and he could use it to his advantage… or teach us how to use our gifts to our advantages. Of course, in your case, even _I_ can see how your gift is an advantage in battle," Carlisle chuckled. "You don't really need to be taught to use your gift. In fact, you probably need to be taught not to rely on it too much."

"So, were you two friends?" I asked.

Carlisle paused, and I saw that his thoughts were conflicted. "I always liked him, but we didn't actually overlap at Volterra very long. By the time he arrived, things were becoming strained between Aro and me. Much of my interaction with Eleazar was orchestrated by the brothers, and I therefore approached him with caution. He was a favored instructor, and we were more than cordial, but he was seeking Aro's favor during the years that I was preparing myself to leave, so I couldn't really consider him a trusted friend, as much as I thought under other circumstances we might be."

"His diet?"

Carlisle smiled grimly. "The usual, though on some level I think he found my choices intriguing. He did not mock me as much as the others."

"And you considered that high praise?"

"One takes what one can get," he said smiling. "He'd been taught to feed on humans from the time of his transformation, as were they all. It's difficult to embrace a different morality, once you are ensconced in one. So yes, I took the lack of hostility as positive. We actually kept in touch for a while after I left, but my last letter was unanswered. And of course I've moved countless times since then, so…" he shrugged and allowed his words to trail off, and I caught a glimpse of sadness and isolation on his face that I usually only sensed in Carlisle's memories. It was gone just as quickly, as his expression grew determined. "His lessons will serve you well, I think."

Eleazar had been Carlisle's most valued instructor, and now in many ways he was mine, too. I relived Carlisle's training vicariously, learning Volturi law and "damage control." Most of this involved disposing of drained bodies discretely, which was gruesome, but strangely fascinating. I was actually surprised that Carlisle was willing to show me this, but it seemed that he wanted me to see just about everything now…anything that might someday be useful.

The combat training was the most interesting. I now knew who those figures on the moonlit hillside were that had been flashing through Carlisle's memory for months. Finally, I could see them in context as I watched Carlisle travel the Italian countryside in what Eleazar termed "practical exercises." They were essentially battles without bites. Whenever an opponent had a clear advantage, the loser would raise a hand to concede, and the victor would call out his new score, increased by one. Numbers were being shouted out continually in Carlisle's memory. It would almost be comical, if it weren't so disconcerting to see all of those bodies flying through the air. I tried to not let the battles of the other vampires distract me, trying instead to focus on Eleazar's words and Carlisle's opponent. I recognized many of the strategies Carlisle used on me all those months ago in Canada. They were obvious now, though at the time I couldn't see what he was doing until it was too late.

Once he'd shared all his memories of combat training with me, we began sparring daily, usually on our way home from a hunt. It was like our chess games, but faster, and with a much messier board. We were nearly evenly matched. Carlisle was a better fighter and strategist, but in this form of battle, being a mind reader was a definite advantage. The speed at which things were happening meant that Carlisle couldn't really plant false thoughts very easily. He could try to distract me with music or memories, but when I startled him these would stop, and I could see his intention. I could deflect his attacks much of the time.

However, scoring points on him was no easy feat. He couldn't read my mind, but he was good at reading my posture and eyes. I watched his mind as we fought, and I could eventually see the cues I was giving him that showed him what I was about to do. Then I started experimenting. I flashed my eyes to his right shoulder and then attacked from his left. He parried to the wrong direction, and I had him on his back in a fraction of a second; a fraction later, he burst into laughter, as he understood what I'd just done.

"Escalation of the mental arms race?" he asked as I extended my hand to take his and help him up.

"So it would seem," I smirked. "Again?"

"Of course," he said facing me and crouching. We sparred for hours, sometimes playfully, sometimes in full battle mode with snarls and growls, often with Carlisle giving me pointers as we fought.

"You're coming at me straight on again. Remember what Eleazar said: might does not win the fight — the vampire who uses his talents and the environment best wins the fight. You should be aware of your surroundings all the time, and determine how you can back me into a location that serves your needs better than where you are now."

"Like a lake?" I asked as I threw him spinning to his left.

He twisted as he spun and landed on his feet. I still didn't know how he managed that… he was a damned cat… "Yes, that worked for what I was trying to accomplish, though I doubt you'll ever find yourself in a similar situation." He dodged my hits as he spoke. "Look for the tactical advantage of anything behind your opponent. For instance, there's a boulder behind me that you should try to throw me against. It's really the only thing out here that can cause me damage other than you."

"But that will really hurt you, Carlisle."

"Edward! _Never_ show mercy during a battle."

I stood, holding my hands up to indicate a time out. "That doesn't really sound like you, Carlisle. When we fought before, you only hurt me as much as you needed to get me under control. Then, of course, you drowned me..." I added, sarcastically. "But even then, you only used the minimum force necessary."

He straightened from his crouch and ran his hand through his hair. "That was a very unique circumstance. It's unlikely that either of us will ever experience anything like that again… where we want to control an opponent but not harm or defeat him. It's true that in normal confrontations, I try to avoid a battle if I'm able to negotiate a settlement or agreement instead. By all means, show compassion and diplomacy before a battle. Show mercy afterward, if appropriate. But once a conflict goes to battle, you must show no mercy until the outcome is determined. You _must_ be fighting to win, and that usually means to kill." He looked away for a moment, and when he looked back there was pain in his eyes. "It is never easy to take a life, Edward. I struggle with it; as a doctor I fight against death on a daily basis. But sometimes, there is no other way. You've seen how it's done. You've seen me do it in my memories. You _must_ be prepared to do that, if you are to survive."

I remembered through his mind biting a stony neck, the sickening crunch, and the tear and silencing of the scream as the head was torn from the shoulders. I remembered the smell of the purple smoke as Carlisle burned the writhing body parts. I understood what it took to defeat a vampire better than anyone who hadn't experienced it directly. It was gruesome, but I'd rather be the one doing the tearing than the one being torn.

"Okay, I understand. Let's go again."

The weeks flew by as Carlisle honed my battle skills; he adjusted his technique to take advantage of my inexperience, essentially pointing out my weaknesses one by one. And one by one I slowly found a way around his new attacks. I could fend him off, even if he attacked me out of the blue. My success pleased me, though Carlisle thought it made me smug.

I was mulling over our latest skirmish as I returned home from a solo hunt, when my mind was suddenly filled with a vision of Luciana Scott gazing longingly. I shook my head to clear the vision, and found myself on my back, pinned by a grinning Carlisle — he had ambushed me from a nearby tree limb.

"That is _not_ funny, old man."

_Yes it was._ "All's fair in love and war," he said lightly as he leapt up and offered me a hand.

"This is not war and that is certainly not love. I want another go."

"I'm afraid not. This concludes your combat training." Carlisle patted my shoulder and then started walking toward the house. I matched his pace, falling in beside him.

"What?"

"I can only best you by filling your mind with thoughts of Miss Scott. What other opponent is going to know to do that? Most won't be aware of your gift at all and certainly won't be able to ascertain how to use it against you. I'd say that you could easily defeat any stranger that didn't have an offensive gift. I think you might be able to defeat two at once. If there are three ganging up on you, I suggest you outrun them until you can even the terms of engagement. It should be easy enough. Just remember the tricks Eleazar mentioned about hiding your scent." He leapt across the creek and continued walking toward the house.

"Anyway, it's not like you are going to be attacked all the time. I've only had to fight a few times since I came to America. I have met nomads, but most moved on once they knew I had a permanent residence, not wanting to infringe on my hunting grounds. However, I've stayed to the north. The south is much more violent. The vampires there form large covens that battle over territory. Most nomads up here travel alone or in pairs. If you stay to the north, you'll be able to handle anyone who might antagonize you, I think. Just remember to look above you from time to time," he said smirking. "Not many vampires attack from the trees, but it _can_ be effective."

"So, that's it?" I asked, still shocked to find that something that had become such a part of our daily lives had suddenly ceased.

He stopped and turned to face me. "I don't really want to spend our final weeks together being thrown against boulders, do you?"

"After that last stunt I wouldn't mind hearing the satisfying crunch of your shoulder colliding with a rock one last time," I said glaring at him. He fought back a smile, trying to look shamed, and I laughed and started walking again. "But yes, it would be nice to recapture some of our peaceful existence before you go." My face grew serious. I'd been avoiding thinking about Carlisle's departure. It was easy, he hadn't packed yet, and we'd been so busy with training we were both distracted. But more and more, his thoughts were focused on cataloging his possessions, deciding what to take and what to sell or offer me. "Do you have a plan yet?" I couldn't meet his eyes as I asked. I saw myself through his mind as he studied me, trying to decide how much detail to give. He could tell I didn't like the subject.

"I've narrowed my options. There's a position in Portland, Oregon that I'm considering, but I'm most likely to accept one in Ashland, Wisconsin if the letter I get back from the realtor is positive."

"What does a realtor have to do with it?"

He smiled. "Well, I like the position on paper. And there's a college in town; I might be able to also teach a class or two, which I haven't done for a few decades. It's not a huge town, but with the railroad and the port…it's on the shores of Lake Superior… there are enough people to allow a certain degree of anonymity. The problem is, there's been a lot of logging and mining in the area. I need to make sure there's enough mature forest nearby for privacy and hunting. I expect to hear from him in the next week, and then I can make my final decision."

"Why not Portland?"

_I'd be so far from him…_ I heard it before he could drown out his thoughts with words. "They need someone really soon. Their chief surgeon left suddenly to move back east after the death of his father. I'm trying to put them off until I find out what the situation is in Ashland, but I've told them that if they need to fill the position before I can get back to them, I understand." So he was taking his connection to me into consideration, but didn't want to admit it, no doubt because he was afraid that I would react badly. I sighed, feeling conflicted… which was apparently my new normal state.

"If Portland is the better situation for you, I don't want you sacrificing to be near me. I mean, how long does it take to run to Oregon… four or five days? A week? I'd still visit you."

_Does he want me further away?_

I shook my head. "I don't know my plans. You want to stay in your next place for a decade, but I might not be here that long. You should do what's best for you."

"So, you're thinking of leaving Chicago?"

The house was finally in view, and my emotions were everywhere again. I knew it had been incredibly generous of Carlisle to give me the house…someplace stable I could call my own… I knew he meant it to be kind. But somehow being in this house without Carlisle and his belongings seemed like a punishment. As if, I would miss him more than he would miss me because I would see his absence. Carlisle would be off somewhere new that didn't have constant reminders of me. It would be easier for him. I felt angry. Then again, he was only making plans without me because _I'd_ said I'd only stay with him a year. He was sad about it — I could see it in his thoughts. So why did I suddenly feel so much anger? I was such a newborn…

"I don't know…maybe. I'm going to play for a while." I stormed up the porch stairs and into the music room, and the opening of Ocean Etude cut off any chance of conversation as Carlisle stood in the open doorway, startled in the wake of my fury. His thoughts were pained and confused, but he could tell I wanted to be alone, and after a moment I heard him slowly climb the stairs wondering what he'd done to offend me. My hands stilled on the piano as I debated apologizing and trying to explain. I heard him pause and turn on the stairs, hopeful. But I resumed my playing with a sigh. What could I tell him? I didn't know myself why I was behaving so erratically.

CPOV

I stood on the stairs, thinking back over our conversation and trying to sort out what had just happened. Once again, Edward was pulling away from me, closing himself off. I wasn't sure what had triggered it this time, but I was familiar enough with the pattern to know what to do: give him his space for a while, and then approach him before he'd wallowed too long. I heard a snort from the music room, and I turned to climb the rest of the stairs. He sounded slightly amused, and I hoped that whatever was bothering him wasn't too serious.

I washed my hands in the bathroom and went to my room to change. Our sparring matches had led to more frequent laundering and repairing of clothing. I felt relieved that they were over… relieved that I was finally confident that Edward could defend himself if necessary… relieved that I could finally just regard him with affection, rather than analyze his weaknesses and search for openings to attack. It felt good to think of him only as a companion, and not as an opponent. He really was a full-fledged vampire now, no longer a newborn, whether he realized it or not. His moods might be erratic for a while longer, but his control and discipline were already better than some mature vampires I knew. I was proud, though I probably had little right to be. He was my first. The first newborn I'd ever trained; the first I'd ever seen trained by a single teacher, since most of the newborns I'd met had been in Volterra. I was so pleased when I thought back on how far he'd come in the time that I'd known him. Yet for everything he'd learned from me, I'd learned even more from him. He was my teacher, too. He was a fine young man, a responsible vampire, and a good friend. And though most of this came from his natural abilities and tendencies, it was pleasant to think that I'd had some role in the man he was becoming. Despite occasional fears and dread to the contrary, I had not failed him as a mentor.

Yet, something had changed for him in the hours since I declared the end of his training. I listened to the agonizing descent of notes wafting up the stairs and throbbing through the floorboards. Ocean Etude was one of my favorites, but a distant consolation prize compared with actually hearing what was on his mind. He was so overtaken by emotion, he hadn't even cleaned up before sitting at his beloved piano. It did not bode well…

He avoided me the rest of the afternoon and night. Not physically. After he played for several hours he bathed and changed, and then joined me in the parlor. But he carried a thick book. He wanted company, or he wanted to acknowledge my desire for company, but he did not want to talk. So we read quietly, enjoying the balmy late July breezes that drifted through the windows in a silence that was _almost_ comfortable. We were both avoiding talking, but there seemed to be an understanding that we _would_ talk, when he was ready.

And so it continued for several days. If I were reading novels or mythologies, he would join me, and even ask me about my reading. He'd play for me. If I were reading about Portland or Ashland, or writing to colleagues in hospitals, he would excuse himself to the barn, where I was not permitted to follow. A secret project of some sort… sanding was involved, I could hear that much.

Three days later I went alone to the post office while Edward stayed in the barn, apparently pleased to have me out of mind-shot for a while. The letter from the realtor was waiting for me, along with some post for Edward. I walked through the park on my way home, thinking of how instrumental it had been during my time here, and how I would miss it. When I finally arrived home, Edward was upstairs washing, but the smell of oil-based stain was thick on the air.

_You have post, Edward. I left it on your desk in the music room._

"Thanks, Carlisle," he called from upstairs. I went into my study and opened the windows, hoping to disperse the scents of stain and turpentine. The room was warm, despite the shade from the surrounding forest. The breeze felt nice as I settled in my leather chair and opened the letter. It was good news. There was indeed still an extensive block of forest in the area, and several homes available either within or adjacent to the remaining woods. He'd be happy to show me all of them when I got into town, and in the meantime I could book a room at the Grand Hotel on Lake Shore Drive. Three of the properties were currently vacant, and the fourth would be vacant by the end of September. He asked me to write again when I knew if I were interested, and asked more questions about the size and price of home I was wanting. The four properties he knew of varied substantially in size and price, but if I could offer him more guidance, he'd seek out more options, perhaps in the neighboring towns, if I were not averse.

I folded the letter closed again, and considered his information. My first reaction was that I wanted a bigger home, where we could really spread out…and then I remembered it wouldn't be _we_, it would just be me, and I really didn't need a home bigger than this one. Still, Edward had said he'd likely visit, and I'd want him to feel comfortable if he did. Looking over the letter again, it seemed the largest home was also the most remote from town…that seemed odd. I looked over the other options again, realizing that one was likely too close to town for my comfort.

I opened the top drawer on my desk and pulled out the letter from Memorial Hospital in Ashland. The first step was to accept their offer, and tell them I could start as early as the first of October. I really had no intention of leaving until the anniversary of Edward's change. I wanted every moment with him we'd agreed to.

I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye, and looked up to see him leaning against the doorframe.

"So, Wisconsin, then?" he asked.

I nodded. "It seems there are appropriate properties and hunting grounds, so yes, I'm going to accept that one. I was just getting ready to write them…"

"October first?"

"Is that okay with you, Edward?" I asked, studying his face and again trying to sort out what was troubling him.

"Of course…yes, that's fine." He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

He turned to leave, but I stopped him. "Edward, please. Won't you tell me what's troubling you? I can tell it's about the move, but I'm not sure what the problem is. Do you want me to leave sooner? Your control is good; you don't really need me to stay with you the whole year. I was just hoping to…"

"The year is fine, Carlisle…we've been over this. It will be nice to spend some time just being together without the training." He was repeating my words; I couldn't tell if he meant them.

"Is Wisconsin too close? Do you think I'll be checking on you…like I don't trust you, because that's not the case…" He held up his hands to interrupt me.

"Wisconsin is fine, too, Carlisle. If you're satisfied that it's the right place for you, I'll be glad to have you that close. I'd still have visited you in Oregon, but this will be easier." I continued to study his face, but before I could ask another question, he continued. "I was actually thinking of having telephone wires brought out to the house after you're gone, so we could talk on the phone occasionally."

My face brightened. "That's a great idea. When I write to the realtor, I'll ask him to consider telephone wires among the criteria for the properties he shows me." Perhaps it wasn't the move that was bothering him. Edward seemed perfectly happy to stay in touch.

"I'm going to play for a while," he said, turning from the room before I could begin questioning him again.

He was still hiding something from me.

"I'm not," he called from music room. "I don't know why I'm upset. There's no reason for it. If I sort it out, I'll let you know." And before I could comment, Bach's Prelude No. 6 in D minor filled the air. I had been dismissed. I sighed, allowing the twisting, pensive, intricate melody to wash through me, making his mood mine. He was troubled, but I had to have faith that he would explain it to me as soon as he understood it himself. At least I felt that we'd resolved enough that I could write my letters in good conscience.

The next morning he came into my study as I wrote.

"I'm heading into town."

"Alone?" I asked.

He shrugged. "You're leaving in eight weeks."

"Yes."

"So, shouldn't I practice doing things on my own…make sure I can, before you go?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. He was right. I nodded. "When will you be back?"

He frowned and looked at the ceiling for a minute, thinking. "Maybe four or five hours. I want to go play Mr. Scott's piano for a while."

"That piano could still be yours," I said smiling.

He smirked and shook his head.

I continued, "Maybe you should…"

"Go for a hunt first; it was always my plan. I'll see you in a few hours."

"If you're going to hunt first, I won't start worrying until six hours have gone by." It was a lie. We both knew I'd be worried the whole time. But he was right; he needed to do this.

He smiled and shook his head. I followed him into the hall and watched him set his father's pocket watch to the clock in the parlor before attaching the chain to his vest buttonhole and tucking the watch into his front vest hip pocket. He put a small billfold in the inside breast pocket of his vest, and grabbed his hat.

"I might be back sooner if I ruin my clothes hunting," he said with a smirk.

I grinned and shook my head. He hadn't dirtied his clothes hunting in six months. "I'll see you in a few hours," I looked at the clock, "By three o'clock, okay Edward?"

He nodded and waved goodbye as he went out the door. I watched through the window as he ran northeast, and exhaled a long breath. He'd been alone in the house a lot, he'd hunted alone a dozen times or more, but somehow this felt much more dangerous. He was walking alone into the devil's lair; temptation would be everywhere.

The ticking clock seemed insanely loud, and though I tried to organize things for my move, I couldn't concentrate. I paced, keeping time with the clock, trying to convince myself that all was well, and Edward had this in hand.

It was not the longest five hours, forty-two minutes, and eighteen seconds of my life, but it was close. He finally entered through the door carrying several packages, all smiles and confidence born of accomplishment. His grins were infectious as he told me all he'd done and seen. He handed me my post, talking of the music he'd bought. Then he showed me a note Mr. Scott had given him with the names of other music stores in town that specialized in different genres of music.

"I was thinking I should try playing some jazz," he explained. "I'm starting to think of my life the way I think of yours…you've lived through all this history. You've seen Mozart play, and Haydn, and so many others. And we're living in Chicago, one of the three cities in the world known for jazz, and this moment won't last forever. Either jazz will peter out as a musical experiment, or it will gain popularity and this time will be seen as the dawn of a new musical form, and Chicago one of the birthplaces. I should be paying attention to that, if I care about music. Oh, and Mr. Scott said that it would sound good on my upright… all those little tonal variations that drive me crazy when I'm playing classical music apparently give jazz 'character'," he said grinning.

He looked better than he had in days, and he seemed excited to share every detail with me. I just basked in the glow of his enthusiasm, laughing as he told me how Luciana grew frustrated that he wasn't paying her enough attention, until Mr. Scott sent her on an errand.

"So, you didn't have any difficulties?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Um…it was okay. I had to hold my breath a few times when the streets got crowded, and I listened to your Mozart concert to calm the voices a few times, but it worked, and I didn't panic. No one's thoughts betrayed any worry that I was unnatural…that I was too pale and likely had the flu, yes, but that I was an immortal killing machine didn't cross anyone's mind. Oh, and speaking of immortal," he said, digging through his packages, "look what Mr. Scott gave me." He handed me a crisp new advertisement featuring a picture of Paderewski under the "Instrument of the Immortals" slogan. "He said Steinway just sent him a whole stack. They are really trying to sell more of the grands."

I laughed. "Are you going to hang it on your wall?" I asked.

"I should wait until they make one with my picture…the double entendre would be great! Relax, old man," he said taking in my shocked expression. "I'm joking. I know that would bring the wrath of the Volturi down on me…though if Aro had any sense of humor he'd appreciate the wit."

"Oh, he'd appreciate it. He'd probably put a framed copy of the flyer next to the urn holding your ashes in the Great Hall."

"Lovely. Well, then, I guess I'd better frame this one. Did you get your letters written, or did you fret then entire time?" I guiltily thought of the unfinished letters on my desk, and he rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm going to play for a while. Then I could probably use another hunt, just to be safe. Do you want to go after dark?"

"Sounds good…I'll see if I can't get some work done now."

Over the next several days, the glow of his mood dimmed, and the testiness returned. Even when he wasn't speaking much, I could tell the change in his mood from his selections on the piano. The first two days back, he played Debussy's Arabesques, along with some cheerful Paderewski compositions. By the time several days had gone by, he was steeped in Rachmaninoff's Prelude in G-sharp minor. He spent more time in the barn again. I received new letters from the hospital and the realtor, requiring me to sign papers and make decisions. I spent time in the attic falsifying new documents for myself. I needed to teach Edward to do this before I left, and I started pulling out example documents to create a file for him: birth certificates for several states, high school and college diplomas and driver's cards. I wasn't sure he'd need any but the first, but it would give him an idea of what types of documents he might want some day. Of course, he should earn the diplomas the first time around. I looked at the wall of empty crates and the bookcases and filing cabinets. There was no reason I couldn't start packing most of this up now. I only needed a few items to teach Edward about forgeries, and the rest I shouldn't need until I was settled in Wisconsin, if then. Maybe I'd leave him some of the books, to help him as he managed his corporation. I started setting aside the items that might be useful to Edward, and grabbed an open crate to organize the things I'd be taking. I hoped my next home had an attic like this one…it was much more pleasant to work in than a closed off basement.

I worked for several hours, sorting and packing, and a sense of dreariness descended on me. I was really going to miss him. I knew we would both be fine… it was starting to feel like every other move: the logistics, the chore of packing my belongings, the endless task of removing books from shelves, only to unpack them somewhere else. I'd done it more times than I cared to remember. But this time, perhaps for the first time, I was leaving behind someone I truly valued. It made me feel wearier, and more anxious. I could hear him rummaging around in his room on the floor below, moving clothes, and it struck me how quiet my new house would be without him, and how quiet this one would be when I left. I'd have to leave him the phonograph and records, and purchase a new one for myself. I wanted him to have anything that would make the transition easier on him, though to be honest, I was beginning to worry about my own transition as well. Perhaps if I got the attic packed early, we'd have time in my final weeks to see some live music or shows, now that his control was so good. I wanted as many memories with him as I could gather.

When I came downstairs he was sitting in my study, looking at my biography wall of art. The photo of us was stuck into the corner of a larger frame housing a painting of the Public Gardens, which were finished during my first tenure in Boston. He looked up, giving me a grim sort of smile.

"Is everything okay, Edward?"

He handed me a package wrapped in paper, and I leaned against my desk as I took it.

"You've started packing already…"

"Just the things in the attic. I thought I'd get them out of the way." He was troubled again. _Edward?_

He stood, agitated, and pointed at the package. I slid my finger along the seam, opening the wrapping. Inside I found a frame: chestnut, with a wide inlay band consisting of small alternating squares of almost white maple and dark walnut…our chess board. The frame fit our picture perfectly, both in size and style. I couldn't speak; I just wrapped my arms over his shoulders and pulled him into an embrace. To my surprise, he clung to me too.

_Thank you so much. It's beautiful, Edward. I'll always, always cherish it._

He nodded into my shoulder, squeezing my chest tighter before releasing me and taking a step back. He scrubbed his face with his hand, and when he finally looked at me, his expression was completely defeated and pained.

_Edward?_ My eyes were wide as I tried to make sense of his pain.

"I have to leave for a while, Carlisle."

_What? No!_

"I'm trying to think about…things," he continued before I could give voice to the outcry in my mind. "But I can only hear your mind: your plans, your logistics, plat numbers and hospital shift options, and whether to ship things by rail or in the truck. I can't stop listening to you. It's like I'm too morbidly fascinated to turn away, and it's leaving no room in my mind for my own thoughts. But I _need_ to work this out before you go, and I can't do it here; I've tried."

The panic on my face must have been extreme, because he steadied _me_ with his right hand on the back of my neck, forcing me to look into his face. "I _will_ be back, Carlisle. This is not goodbye."

"Don't do this," I whispered. "Don't waste any of our remaining time with a separation. I'll give you more space…I'll try to quiet my thoughts…I'll read…"

"Carlisle," he said gently, shaking his head. "It won't work. I've been trying for days to ignore your thoughts. You aren't doing anything wrong. It's _me_. _I_ can't stop listening. But I need to… I need to focus on my own thoughts. Please let me have that. I just need a bit of peace, and then I'll be back. Pack while I'm gone…but leave the chess board up." That felt like a pledge; I took a deep breath and tried not to let despair completely engulf me.

"How long do you need?" I asked.

He smiled sadly. "I don't know. I'm hoping just a few days, but…" he shrugged, allowing his words to trail off. He was offering no promises. "I'm sorry, Carlisle," he said, placing his left hand on my shoulder and giving my arm a brief squeeze. "I wouldn't do this to you if I could think of another way." He released me, gave me an apologetic look, and walked into the music room. After a stunned moment I followed him, startled to find him donning a stuffed pack. He fingered the edge of a frame on his desk…the picture of us, framed identically to mine, but with the dark and light squares reversed… and then turned to face me.

"You're leaving now?" I asked incredulously.

He sighed. "Take care, Carlisle. I…" He trailed off again, and closed his mouth, thinking better of whatever he was going to say. Then with one final sad smile, he walked through the door. I could hear his footfalls receding.

_No!_

I bolted up the stairs, through my bedroom window, and onto the roof. I stood facing north; I could almost feel the distance he was putting between us, stride by stride. I closed my eyes, focusing on the sounds. I could still hear them. His footsteps running… running away from me. A sob escaped my chest, but I held my breath, clinging to the sound for as long as possible, until it was so faint I suspected it was just my imagination, until enough time had passed that it _had_ to be my imagination. And when I could no longer hear it, I sunk to a sitting position, looking out over the tree canopies.

_Edward…my brother, my friend, my teacher… be safe. _

And despite his assurances, I wondered if that sad parting smile and those retreating footfalls were the last I'd see or hear of Edward Masen.

**A/N Voting for the Sunflower Awards goes through May 25th. Prelude is up for Best Edward, Best Carlisle, and Best Quote. Thanks to those who nominated me…I know some of you, but not all. And thanks to any of you who choose to support Prelude in these contests. It's humbling to be included among so many great stories.**

**Music this chapter included composers we've seen before (as always, these are posted in my Profile):**

**Bach's Prelude No. 6 in D minor BWV 875: http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=HZRB-x5LNgw&feature=related**

**Debussy's Arabesque II: http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=RvAiQ9H56a4&feature=related**

**Rachmaninoff's Prelude in G-sharp minor op.32/12: http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=uE71rHeAfDI**

**So what do you think? Is Edward acting like a grownup? Was the frame a goodbye gift? Please review; I'd love to hear your thoughts, and will try to answer each one, despite FFN's technical glitches. And if you'd like to get teasers as I write, you can follow me on Twitter at ATONAU.**


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

**A/N Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing, recommending Prelude, chatting with me on Twitter, and otherwise supporting this little project. I'm sort of amazed that I have nearly 300 reviews now…and you all write such thought-provoking comments. I appreciated them so much. I promise to catch up on responses now that this chapter is posted. I owe a few of you Variations, too. Don't worry; it will be coming. Oh, and a few of you have been suggesting music you'd like me to consider for Prelude…I promise to explore all your recommendations; whether I use them will just depend on whether I feel they fit the context I need. But thank you so much for thinking of me.**

**As always, thanks to my wonderful beta Coleen561, and also to my music guru Zoya Zalan, who performs magic. I tell her a mood, a bit of context and the character it's for, and within an hour she has multiple options for me to explore. She helped me find the Clementi I'm quoting this chapter, and I love it. Thanks, BB! **

**We left Carlisle standing on the roof, listening to Edward's footsteps retreat into the distance…**

CPOV

Eight days later, my footsteps echoed through my near-empty study. My belongings were, for the most part, packed in crates and stacked in the kitchen. All that remained were my clothes in the dresser upstairs, my writing implements in my study, and a handful of books lined up on the mantle in the parlor, held up on one side by my framed photo of Edward and me, and on the other by the mantle clock. And the chess board; of course, the chess board. I sat in my chair, looking down at the board, and then across it to Edward's empty chair. I now had just over six weeks before I had to move; listening to the clock tick off the seconds in the hollow room, I hoped it would be enough.

Edward had said he'd return…had _promised_. I was, if nothing else, a man of faith. Placing faith in Edward might feel a bit different from the sort I normally exhibited, but was it really too much for him to ask of me? He'd told me as much as he could, given me a gift he'd made himself, embraced me, spoke calmly, and then left. Everything indicated his affection, his attempt to reassure me. He didn't leave in anger or frustration, at least not directed toward me. I should be able to take his words at face value, make use of the time apart to pack, and await his return without torturing myself with wild imaginings. And after the initial shock wore off, for several days I had been able to do just that. But eight days was a long time. So much longer than he'd thought he needed. And the gift I thought he'd given to reassure me now looked suspiciously like a parting gift. It was hard not to let doubt creep in. Doubt and regret.

The last week served as a preview of the rest of my life: a return to solitary pursuits and isolated living. I knew it well. I was already slipping back into old patterns. They were almost comfortable…almost comforting. But I'd become so spoiled. I was so used to returning to a house that _wasn't_ exactly as I'd left it. A house in which my books mysteriously moved from a shelf to a table, in which my bouts of melancholy were met with a sudden cheerful concerto played on the piano or gramophone before they'd even had a chance to register in my mind, in which a joke flickered on my lips, and warmth touched my heart. A house that was a home. This week, everything had stayed put, right where I'd left it, and the air was still and quiet, except for the oppressive ticks marking the passage of empty time.

I was going to miss him so much.

I should have made it clearer. I should have told him how much I valued his company. He had done so much for me over the months, made certain to share so many things with me. I looked at the photo of us on the mantle. It had been his idea. It was his skill and effort that had created the frame that housed it so perfectly, with so much meaning. Had I made a similar gesture? Had I done anything that could be interpreted as the act of a friend and not merely a teacher? I had given him my crest, but had I made it clear _why_ I'd given it to him? Did he understand that I had not acted out of obligation, as a mentor? Had I made it clear that I _wanted_ him to visit? That I wanted _him_? That any house of mine was his home too, if he chose it to be? I didn't think so. Yet surely he knew. He was tied to my mind in such a fundamental way that even I didn't understand it… it was why he had left, for God's sake… _surely_ he knew. But perhaps he needed to be told. Perhaps he needed to hear it from my mouth, and not just my mind.

_The mistakes of action, if well meant, are more easily forgiven than the mistakes of inaction._

I scrubbed my face with my hand and groaned. This was ridiculous. I needed to get out of the house for a while. A change of scene would probably do wonders for my mood. I stood. I'd go to town; I'd get the post and a paper. Edward had been following the White Sox' season, and if he'd been away from civilization, he'd need the statistics in the papers when he got home. And I could find out the rates to ship cargo at the train station. I got myself ready to go, grabbing a hat and trench coat as I stepped out into the muggy summer's day. Thunderclouds were threatening.

Mr. Pierce offered me Edward's post when I collected my own. I took it, because not doing so would raise questions, but I wondered if I should. I almost asked him if he'd seen Edward this week, but that, too, seemed like it would raise suspicions. In the end I said nothing, and just smiled and nodded. I went to the train station, collecting information on rates and schedules. I didn't know if I would bring any of the furniture, but I got rates for that too. I suspected everything I truly wanted would fit on the truck. I considered stopping by the music shop just to have someone to visit, but again I was afraid that it would raise suspicions if Mr. Scott realized I hadn't seen Edward for a week. I detoured through the park, but then decided I'd best head home, just as the thunderstorm began.

The sound of the driving rain changed as I left the city and entered the forest. Where it had been a flat sound pulsing at my feet, it became an almost musical array of notes as droplets splattered against leaves of different shapes and sizes overhead. Periodically interrupted by a drum roll of thunder, the rain itself sounded intricate and swirling. I could almost make out a melody in the chaotic rhythm of notes. The song of the rain sounded achingly familiar yet elusive…only a few notes would make sense at a time and then the wind would blow, and the leaves would shake like chimes, only to slip into order again. It swirled and dipped, rose and faded. And then recognition hit me: Rachmaninoff. I stopped, straining to listen around the sound of the rain and leaves. Had I imagined it? It was gone now. I started walking again, shaking my head at myself. My isolation was clearly driving me a bit mad. And then, clear as day, I heard the jubilant opening notes of Clementi's Sonata Opus 24 No 2 in B flat major: the Allegro. It was one of my very favorite pieces of music, and there were only three beings in the world who knew that; only one of them lived in North America.

"Edward…"

I began running, encouraged by the fast pace of the music. Edward was playing, for _me_… beckoning me home. I thought my silent heart would burst. It was a beautiful piece, joyful and poignant in places. I ran as fast as I could, and it grew louder and louder as I approached. Joy swelled in my chest as the house came into view, and I caught a hint of his scent, even through the rain. I climbed the porch stairs and opened the door just as the music slowed and became achingly sweet in its closing measures. I watched the concentration on Edward's face as he drew out the end of the melody, eyes closed and a soft smile on his face. The last chord reverberated through the air, and he dropped his hands to his knees, turning slowly to look at me, still smiling.

I blinked, almost afraid to speak for fear I was imagining him. He cocked his head and his smile widened.

"You think I'm a ghost _and _a vampire, old man? Is that even possible?" he asked.

I shook my head, my shock still overwhelming. I'd gotten so used to the idea that he might not return…

His face fell. "Carlisle, I said I was coming back. I wouldn't have…what you're thinking…I would have _never_ done that to you. I'm sorry I took so long." He ran a hand through his hair, distressed.

"It's okay," I said, and then cleared my throat. I'd actually used my voice very seldom while he'd been away. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have doubted you."

His smile returned. "You'll know better next time."

We continued to stare… I took in every detail of him, memorizing him again, as if he might fade into the air like the notes he'd just played. He shook his head, and an odd expression passed over his face.

"What?" I asked.

"I have so much I want to tell you, but I don't think I can get up from the piano yet. I want you to come sit with me, but you can't."

"I can't sit with you?"

He chuckled. "You look like a drowned rat…wearing a hat. You know you're not allowed near my piano like that."

I looked down at myself, shocked to see a puddle forming on the hardwood floor.

"Do you want me to get you a towel?" he asked laughing.

"No, you play...please. I'll be back in a minute. He started a Debussy Arabesque. Another joyful song. I hung my trench coat and hat on pegs outside on the porch, and then took the stairs two at a time, drying, changing, and grabbing towels. It was comforting hearing the music, knowing that he was exactly where he should be. I was downstairs a few minutes later, drying the floor, and hanging the towel outside with my coat. I approached the music room, and before I could even ask if it was still okay, he slid to his left as he played, inviting me.

I sat next to him on the bench, reveling in the sight of him. His scent filled me: the familiar cloves, spice and musk, similar to mine, but darker, earthier. I had never fully appreciated how welcome I found his scent. His fingers glided across the keys as he switched to a Bach, another of my favorites. He was treating me, and I sighed happily and enjoyed the performance. There would be time enough for explanations. For now I really just wanted to bask in his presence: the way he tilted his head as he played, the way he leaned into my shoulder to include me, the way he filled the house with life. It was good to have him home.

"It's good to be home," he said as he continued playing. I chuckled as I realized how happy I was to have him in my head again. He laughed and shook his head.

"Beethoven, Carlisle? Really?" he asked.

I searched my mind for the errant thought he'd picked up. Oh.

"Only if you're feeling _very_ indulgent," I answered.

"It's a little sentimental, even for your tastes, but I suppose this once," he smirked, rolling his eyes. As the Bach ended, he transitioned seamlessly into Ode to Joy. The strong chords shook the air, and it was impossible not to laugh as he played with great enthusiasm. As it ended, he pulled his hands away from the keys and set them on his knees, allowing the final chord to reverberate through the air. "I can't think of a single thing that can follow that," he said grinning. He looked at me sideways, and his smile fell a bit. He looked… almost nervous.

"Edward?" I searched his face.

He shook his head slightly. "I've wanted to talk to you for so long, and now I don't know where to start."

I breathed out. It was time. "Why don't you tell me where you went?"

He nodded. "Okay, but not here. Let's go to the parlor." In moments we had a fire started, more to fight off the gloom of the dark thunderclouds than for warmth. I sat in my chair, waiting for him to join me. He didn't. He leaned an elbow against the mantle, studying the books I'd left out, and the picture of us. The rain continued to buffet the house, making the silence feel longer. Finally, he spoke. "I went to Canada first. I spent two days at the site of my first failure."

"Why?" I asked incredulously.

He turned and looked at me. "To make sure I wouldn't fail again."

I waited, and in a few moments he continued.

"I've been thinking a lot about what I want to do with my life. It's really the first time I've had a choice. When I was a human, I was still under the direction of my parents. I had ideas about what I wanted to do, most of which my mother vetoed," he said, rolling his eyes, "but I never had a chance to act on them. Now a lot of those aren't possibilities. I was ambitious; set on glory. But glory is just exposure now." He ran his finger over the spines of my books, thoughtfully, almost absentmindedly. "The last year has been about survival, and training. It's only been in the last few weeks that I've really wondered what I could do with myself, with eternity stretching out before me."

I nodded. These were familiar deliberations; I'd gone through the same centuries earlier. "Why didn't you talk to me? I might have helped…"

He turned to look at me again and smiled. "Everything I was thinking… all the choices I tentatively made, it was all overshadowed by this uncertainty. Was I making choices for the right reasons? Was I scared? Was I truly capable of pursuing goals on my own? Spending six hours in town alone is one thing, but controlling myself, day after day, with no one else to help or bear witness…I had to be sure. So I went to Canada. I hunted. I came across humans, and I didn't kill them. That felt good…managing to break out of a hunting frenzy on my own."

My eyes were wide. His control was good, but this was surprising. "How did you manage it?"

He grinned. "I held my breath and imagined breathing in putrid, fishy, lake water. It's amazingly effective, even as a memory."

I barked out a laugh.

"See?" he continued. "You were helping me even then."

I shook my head. "So you passed your first test for yourself. What did you do then?"

"I came back to Chicago. I met with Mr. Campbell and got the key to my parents' home. I've been meaning to go through it one more time before the first renters arrive, to collect the rest of the things I want to keep. I used it as a base for the last few days as I took care of some business…"

"Wait," I sat up straighter and looked at him. "You've been ten miles away from me this whole time?"

"Yeah," he shrugged. "I just had to make sure I could do it…it didn't have to be a big production."

I laughed, shaking my head at myself. "I've been thinking you were gone…_long gone_. I've been feeling that I might never see you again, and you were _ten miles_ away? I'm surprised I didn't _smell_ you."

His face fell a bit. "I'm sorry, Carlisle, I..."

"Shhh. It's all right, Edward. I can see this was necessary. I'm just…" I shook my head and rubbed the back of my neck absently. "I'm just such an old fool sometimes. Go on with your story." He looked skeptical. "Really, Edward. I'm fine." I smiled, and he seemed to study my face or my mind for a moment before relaxing again.

"That's it, really. I found the music stores Mr. Scott told me about and spent days shopping. I packed up things in my parents' house. I got used to hearing thoughts around me all the time and worked really hard not to eat anyone. It was hard. People are annoying, and they smell too nice for their own good. When I felt sure that I could do it more or less indefinitely, I came home. I know I can do it now. I'm not afraid of it anymore."

I smiled, though I felt a bit pensive. "I didn't realize you were doubting yourself so much. I could have told you that your control was excellent. You shouldn't have worried."

"I needed to see for myself."

"Of course. So, now that you've had this experience, we can relax for the next few weeks because you're confident you'll be okay when I leave?"

His face fell again, and he looked down at his hands. "Um, not exactly." He was nervous again, and he sighed deeply before continuing. "I said that the fear was coloring my choices… I was afraid that I was making choices in reaction to the fear, and I didn't want to do that. I _can_ live on my own and be safe. It's _a_ choice, but perhaps not the only one."

He sighed again, and I was confused. Was he saying that this experience made him realize he didn't want to live alone?

"No," he answered, stifling the moment of hope I'd felt. He shook his head and chuckled. "It clarified _why_ I don't want to live alone."

I blinked, unsure I understood what he was saying.

"That's not right, either," he said, running his hand though his hair and looking away. "I'm not saying it right. It's not that I don't want to be alone. I could be alone. It's that… I like having a family." He turned to face me. "I like having you for my family."

I couldn't speak. We'd skirted this for so long that I almost couldn't believe he'd said it. I looked at him for a long moment. His face was almost as familiar to me as my own, and was much more dear. _I like having you for my family, too,_ I finally thought, looking him in the eye. He expelled the breath he'd been holding and nodded, smiling slightly.

"I couldn't tell you before, because… well we've gotten in trouble when our roles were confused." That was true. "If my control were really that borderline, I would have just figured out how to deal with it on my own…you shouldn't have to baby sit me anymore."

"I wouldn't have minded."

"I know, but you've done a good job training me, and you've certainly fulfilled whatever promises you made my mother. Worst case scenario, if I were really worried about my control, I would have asked you to delay your job for six months and train me more; I would have told you I wasn't ready. I would have asked you to stay as my _mentor_."

I turned his words over in my mind. He would have been willing to ask for help from his _mentor_, had it been necessary, but it wasn't. So that left us… where we began. I still didn't see what he was telling me.

"I wasn't going to ask to go with you just because I was worried about my control. It would have felt like I was just using you. You deserve better than that. But my control is fine…not effortless, but manageable. So that's no longer a consideration in my decision of what to do with my life. I have more freedom to choose."

…_ask to go with me? _

He continued, "Even knowing that I'm perfectly safe on my own, that I could just leave and travel like I'd always planned, and I'd be fine…and I _would_ be fine… I've been slowly realizing that it's not what I want. The entire time I was away — walking the streets, shopping for music, sorting through things in my parents' house — there were things I wanted to show you, jokes that only you would find funny…" He reached into his collar and pulled out a chain that had been hidden under his shirt. My ring was on it, along with his father's. "When you gave me this, you told me I wasn't alone, that I was like family, that I always had a place with you…a place to visit.

I nodded. Without realizing I'd moved, I found myself standing in front of him by the hearth, staring at the glinting gold dangling from the chain between his fingers. I was amazed to find my ring around his neck. I whispered, "Did you wear the ring the whole time you were gone?"

"Actually, I've worn it like this since the night you gave it to me."

I stared at him, at the rings gleaming in the firelight… wondering if he was asking what I thought he was asking.

He continued his previous thought. "What if I didn't want to just visit?"

I gasped, understanding... but I couldn't believe it, couldn't voice it.

_You want to come with me?_

He looked scared, and his breath hitched as he nodded. "Yes, not as your student. That… obligation… is finished when we leave Chicago, if you agree. I'm sure I'll continue to learn from you…"

"As I learn from you," I interrupted.

He shrugged. "But that wouldn't be our primary relationship. We'd be…"

_Equals,_ I thought.

"Family," he finished. "If you agree."

_If I agree…of course I agree! _I pulled him into an embrace as laughter bubbled from my lips. I couldn't believe it. It was too much, too good. I felt his arms clasp around my back as he laughed too. I pulled back, my hand on the back of his neck, looking into his face as his hands moved to my shoulders.

"You really want to go to Ashland with me?"

"Why are you so surprised, Carlisle?" he laughed. "You're good company, a good man, and a good friend. My mother was right about you. And I'm clearly a pain in the neck, not to mention entirely too invasive of your privacy. Are you sure you really want me to come with you?"

I shook my head at his assertions, pulling him back into an embrace. Venom pooled in my eyes as I realized he was _choosing_ to stay with me, choosing to follow me.

"Edward," I choked, the joy in my mind almost obliterating my ability to form coherent sentences. "I _so_ treasure your company and friendship. I… I just can't express how happy I am at the thought of continuing to share a home with you. It's more than I'd dared to hope for. _Never_ doubt that you have a home with me for as long as you choose it."

Then worry crossed my mind. Everything he knew was here.

"Would you rather stay in Chicago? I mean, would you rather that _we_ stay in Chicago?" I relished the '_we'_.

He pulled back and looked at me, pondering that. "No, you need to practice medicine, and you can't do that here now. Even if we went to a different part of the city, the medical field can't be that big…you'd be recognized, and I might even be recognized among the doctors, and no good could come from that. I spent the last four days buying enough music to last me a few months anyway. I should be able to survive the northern Wisconsin wilderness," he smirked. "I'll keep this house and use it as a base if I have business in Chicago, or need music that isn't available in one of the closer cities. Oh, and that reminds me, I got you something." He led me back into the music room, opening his pack and retrieving large stacks of sheet music and records. He flipped through the latter pile, and handed me five albums. They were compilations of madrigals and lute songs. "I went into a record store in the South Side, and at one point this was playing. It sounded familiar, but not like anything I knew. And then I realized that I'd heard music like this in some of your memories. There wasn't a lot of selection, I just bought what they had…I don't know if you have favorites… you used to hear music like this, didn't you?"

"In my youth, and early years as a vampire," I said, turning the records over to look at the titles. "Lute songs were more prevalent than madrigals…even I'm not quite as old as that," I looked up to see his grin, "but I heard both routinely. Thank you Edward, this is a very considerate gift. All your gifts have been extremely thoughtful," I said, thinking of the frame.

He looked pleased with himself. "It's the least I could do, old man." We continued to grin at each other, and it really sunk in that I was not leaving him behind. The mental preparations I'd been making, bracing myself to fend off loneliness, the stress of returning to that all too familiar solitary life…all those worries fell away like discarded armor, leaving me light and vibrating with excitement.

My mind was racing. This changed everything. Half the properties I'd been considering were now too small. I'd write to the realtor and change the specifications. Telephone wires were no longer a priority; size and isolation were the priorities. And if we were staying together, there was no particular reason to wait until the end of September. We could leave anytime…next week even, and get settled in our new home well before I had to start working.

He laughed. "Actually we _can't _leave next week."

"Why's that?"

"I went down to Comiskey Park and bought us tickets for White Sox games through the end of September."

"You did what?" I asked laughing. He was full of surprises.

"I told you, they're going to the World Series this year. Now that I can stand being around humans, I want to make sure I see at least a few games. Even if you'd said no, I wanted to do this with you before you left. We can go look at houses if you want to; they are playing away games for a few weeks, but we can't actually move until after our last game…"

"Which is?"

"My birthday."

"Your birthday was in June."

"My other birthday," he smirked.

"Oh, of course! Who are they playing?"

"The Detroit Tigers, but I also got us tickets for three other games, starting next week against the Washington Senators."

"And if they win the pennant do I have to try to get time off for at least one game of the series?" I asked laughing. I wondered if the hospital administrators in Ashland were baseball fans, and whether they would have _any_ patience for such a request.

"If we go early to look for houses, you could introduce me to them, and I could try to get a read on whether they'd tolerate time off for the World Series. I obviously think it's a _great_ idea, but I understand that you told them you'd start on the first, and you don't want your new boss thinking you don't take your job seriously."

"Especially since I'm straight out of medical school, with no track record," I added with a smile. Then my brow furrowed. How would I introduce him?

"What do you mean?"

"It's fine for us to say we're family, and not define it beyond that, but the rest of the world will want specifics. Two unmarried, unrelated men living together will raise eyebrows and earn unwanted attention. And it's best if the story is simple and easy to digest." He's not going to want to play the role of my son, and we're only six years apart anyway…Brothers? But we have different last names…

"You told that family at the park that I was your nephew. My mother's brother would have a different last name."

"And you'd be okay with that?"

"Are you okay being Elizabeth's brother?" he countered.

"Actually, I've grown to have quite a soft spot for Elizabeth," I said with a small smile. "I'd be honored to be her brother."

"Well then, it's settled. We can keep the details pretty close to the truth. Just don't expect me to call you Uncle Carlisle when we're at home," he said, rolling his eyes.

The White Sox beat the Senators eleven to four. Edward had purchased us seats in the last row, far under the overhang. We were in the shade, and as Edward said, with out excellent vision, we didn't need to be close. It was my first game, and Edward showed me how to fill out the statistics sheet. He joked about making me eat peanuts or crackerjacks, but apparently my face was horrified enough that it wasn't necessary; he'd had his entertainment. The win against the Yankees was narrower: four to one. A fly ball came in our direction, and I could see how desperately he wanted to dash over the seats and snatch the ball before it could be caught by one of the many humans with their oversized mitts. But his control was exemplary. I squeezed his shoulder sympathetically as he settled back in his seat.

We went to his family home, collecting the rest of the possessions he wished to keep: his father's collection of paintings, his mother's jewelry, a few more books and the rest of the photos. We moved his father's piano and a few other pieces of furniture to an upstairs room that would remain locked while the house was rented. He didn't really want them, but he couldn't bring himself to sell them, and he didn't want anyone else ruining them or playing the piano.

"I know it's not logical. I should just sell it, but I can't," he said as we moved the piano upstairs.

"Edward, these are your things…and they are steeped in memories, faded though they may be. You are allowed to be as eccentric with them as you like." He glared at me, but the corner of his lips twitched. "I have the cross from my father's church, despite the fact that he would have burned me alive if he'd seen me after the change. I'm in no position to judge you for sentimentality."

We had almost two weeks before our next ball game, so we decided that a trip to Ashland was in order. The realtor picked us up from the front of the hotel at eight in the morning. He had lined up seven properties for us to view, and depending on when we finished, we were thinking of visiting the hospital as well.

The first three homes were on the edge of town. As soon as we walked into them, Edward looked at me and shook his head, indicating that he could still hear the neighbors' thoughts. He needed to be comfortable at home. I explained to the realtor that Edward played piano extensively, sometimes at odd hours if I had a late shift at the hospital, and that it might be better if we were further out of town. He said that he had an unusual property to show us.

"There were a number of railroad men that used to come through here often when the lines were first extended," he explained as he drove us out of town to the west. "Mr. McGovern was a sportsman, and he initially built this place as his hunting lodge, to impress his friends. When they were having their mansion built down in Chicago, the whole family moved in for about nine months. _Mrs_. McGovern apparently didn't appreciate the antler motif, and had the place decorated more to her tastes. It's sat vacant since they relocated to the city, and is apparently no longer rustic enough to be used for hunting. Mr. McGovern is anxious to be rid of it," he said, turning north onto a road surrounded by forest. Edward gave me a quick look from the back seat, raising his eyebrows. I agreed; it did seem promising.

"How much of the forest is associated of the property?" I asked.

"Mr. McGovern owns about 3000 acres. He'd like to sell it all, but he knows he's unlikely to find a buyer interested in the house and that much land. He's willing to negotiate on that point." We drove up a rise and then back down into a small valley, the road winding. We'd been off the main road for about ten minutes, and I was confident that Edward couldn't hear anyone else, but I looked back at him to check.

He glanced at the back of the realtor's head, and I rolled my eyes.

_Anyone else?_

He smirked and shook his head slightly: no.

That was very promising. The road curved around to the left and we could see the house. It was large… rustic, but with elegant lines. Stone and wood and ample windows. The realtor parked the car and got out, waiting for us before he continued.

"There are three bedrooms upstairs. One is clearly the master, with a large attached bathroom. The other two bedrooms share a bathroom down the hall. There's a fourth bedroom and a full bath downstairs. The attic is unfinished, but accessible. The cellar is partially finished. Mr. McGovern used it as a wine cellar, and now with Prohibition..." His words trailed off suggestively. He rattled off the home's attributes as he climbed the porch steps and opened the door. We entered a large entry with a curved staircase. Glass double doors to the right led to a large room lined with bookshelves. A fireplace graced the far wall, and a bay window let in the gray afternoon light. Further down the hall was a slightly smaller room with two west facing windows. The back of the house held a kitchen, a dining room, and living quarters. We returned to the front of the house, steps echoing. Across the entry from the room I was already thinking of as the library, there was a large room with a bank of easterly windows and another fireplace. A small chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. I looked at Edward.

_Do you know what would look great in the middle of this room?_

He shook his head slightly.

_Mr. Scott's Steinway._

His eyes grew large as he looked at the center of the room again, and then a grin spread across his face. He looked at me, quirking an eyebrow. I smirked, nodding slightly.

"We'll take it," we said in unison.

**A/N First, to the music. Edward played Carlisle home to this…be sure to listen to the end…so good:**

**Muzio Clementi's Sonata Op. 24 No. 2 in B flat major : Allegro con brio**

**http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=1RiEQ69Iah0**

**Honestly, I couldn't find a piano version of Ode to Joy that was as exaggerated as I imagined Edward playing it. The piano versions I found online were either homemade and dreadful, really sedate (more like Ode to Vague Pleasantness), or sounded like someone playing at a Nordstrom's in the 80s. This comes the closest, and it still takes itself far too seriously (sorry about the sucky ad)… just imagine Edward taking a bit of a piss out of it:**

**http : / www . metacafe . com / watch / 1480559 / ode_to_joy_piano/**

**I haven't made any recommendations lately, but hope to fix that in the coming chapters. I'm going to focus on a few canon writers this chapter, and then AU authors next chapter.**

**Woodlily is writing a beautiful version of Twilight from Edward's POV called Fox Fire (www . fanfiction . net / s / 5661822 / 1 / Fox_Fire). She has a real handle on Edward's canon personality, fills in a lot of missing moments and motivations, helps explain why he's not a stalker (I was wondering about that, weren't you?), and shows some real depth in Edward's relationship with his family, especially Alice. It's a delight to read: funny, poignant, and very revealing.**

**Mara Sevvie is in the process of writing a very ambitious set of fics that take place after New Moon and are canon-compliant. The first, Damages I- Carlisle, is a marvelous exploration of the relationship (canon) between Carlisle and Bella. There are some really interesting moments, and a lot of depth to the relationship. Mara Sevvie has an entire Damages series planned, each focusing on the relationship between Bella and a different Cullen. I find the concept very intriguing.**

**As always, I can be found on Twitter at ATONAU, and often chat about what I'm writing. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story, music recommendations, pleas to bring Esme faster… whatever you wish to tell me. I love the feedback and ideas that readers' questions often provide. And thanks so much for reading.**


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Thanks as always to my fabulous beta, Coleen561; your insights are always so helpful. I also had two author friends pre-read part of this chapter for me: StormDragonfly and Malianani…thank you so much, ladies. Your input was invaluable. And thanks to the incomparable Zoya Zalan, who helped me discover yet another composer. So good. Thanks to all of you who have contacted me on Twitter with encouragement. I love hearing from you all…it keeps me motivated. Sorry this chapter took so long, but RL is busy.**

**I have a very long end AN…sorry, but if you read to the end, I think you'll be glad you did.**

Ashland, WI – June, 1920

EPOV

"Dr. Cullen, you must be very proud of your nephew. I understand he was able to finish on time, despite his illness."

I looked down from the stage to see Carlisle talking with the other families in the audience. The elder Miss Sanderson was making a point of engaging him in conversation. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, she was getting a little desperate for a husband, and was making use of her sister's graduation to flirt. Carlisle flashed me a weary expression as he answered her.

"Edward is quite a good student when he puts his mind to it."

In other words, I could read a book in one night at home, take a test on it the following week — or month, or year — and score perfectly. Thank God Carlisle had gotten the administrator of the school to allow me to do independent study. There's no way I could have tolerated sitting in a classroom for six hours every day. It would have been a strain on my control, yes, but much more of a strain on my patience. The teenagers of Ashland, Wisconsin were entirely obsessed with romance, whose father made the most money, which of the young men who had returned from the Great War were the handsomest, and whether they should make their fortunes in any of the local industries or move further west. It was intolerable.

And then there were the thoughts about Carlisle and me. The entire town wondered about us. When we first arrived, we were considered some of the most eligible bachelors in town. Carlisle had paid cash for the lodge and surrounding forest, and it was known I had some sort of inheritance; wild speculations held it anywhere between a third and ten fold the actual worth of my estate. It was soon discovered that I did well in school, and Carlisle was, of course, an excellent doctor. But as time passed, the shine wore off us a bit. People noticed that we did not entertain. We repaired the fence that the original owner, Mr. McGovern, had first erected near the main road to keep the locals from poaching his deer, and began locking the gate at the start of the private drive that led to the lodge. We were friendly enough in town, but it was clear we did not wish to be disturbed at home. We had odd habits; we would not show up at a community event, only to be extremely friendly at the next one. No one put together that it was dependent on the sunshine; they just saw us as inconsistent. They tolerated Carlisle because he provided the community with such a vital service. Me, they just found offensive. Too handsome, too aloof, too frightening. I was fine with it.

Of course, some of the intrepid females were not put off by our odd ways. I smiled as I listened to Miss Dorothy Sanderson struggle to keep Carlisle talking.

"I hear he did quite well. Did he make top of his class?"

Carlisle glared at me, and I fiddled with the mortarboard on my head. I'd done too well; I'd drawn attention to myself… I'd very nearly stolen the top honors from one of the local families. Carlisle made me promise to earn some B's so the hotel owner's son would have a chance at valedictorian.

"Well, because he'd gotten ill in the middle of the school year in Chicago, he'd seen some of the material before. But, yes, he did well."

This was a lie, of course. I'd missed my entire senior year in Chicago… receiving personalized training in Vampires 101 instead. But it helped explain my ease with the material, and the fact that I could master it without the benefit of an instructor. I'd only seen most of my classmates a few times. I'd come into the regular class to give oral reports. I'd skipped the social events.

"Are you doing anything special to celebrate his graduation? We are having some people over to the house to celebrate with Ruth. You gentlemen would both be welcome to join us, I'm sure. Mama said she has enough food for the whole town, and Ruthie said Edward gave a talk in one of her classes. Ruthie likes music… I thought I'd heard that Edward was musical."

I looked down at my hands, and then over to the other side of the stage at the tall, lanky form of Ruthie Sanderson in her blue robes. She was not musical; Miss Dorothy just thought she'd have a better chance with Carlisle if it looked like she was trying to set me up with her younger sister. And I knew Ruthie's mind better than her family did; she was in no way interested in me…I was entirely too male for her tastes. I looked back at Carlisle to find him glancing up at me. Without moving any other muscle, he raised his eyes to the sky. It was part of our personal sign language: _heaven help me_. I smirked and looked away before I laughed more obviously.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, though I'm very flattered… we both are, I'm sure… that you'd think to include us in your family celebration. We haven't finished packing yet for our trip, so we should probably head straight home after the ceremony. Thank you, though, Miss Sanderson."

"You're leaving town again?" She sounded genuinely disappointed.

"Just for a few days. We have tickets for a few concerts in Chicago… King Oliver and the Creole Orchestra tomorrow night at the Dreamland Ballroom, and The New Orleans Rhythm Kings at Friar's Inn."

Miss Sanderson's eyes grew wide. "But isn't that a…a _speakeasy_?" she whispered the last word harshly. "I read the papers, Dr. Cullen. They _raided_ the Friar's Inn just last month. Caught some gangster…"

Carlisle chuckled. "I assure you, Miss Sanderson, we are only going for the music."

Their conversation was cutoff by the school administrator taking the stage, welcoming the families and graduates, and introducing the speaker for our graduation: a businessman who owned a mine, a sawmill, and a regional logging company. He was single-handedly responsible for clearing hundreds of acres of forest in the area…a boon to the local economy, but it had left a mess behind. He stood self-importantly at the podium at the front of the stage, and he looked out over the families in the audience. He pronounced with a grand gesture that the bright and shining intellects seated on the stage behind him represented America's most valuable natural resource.

I snorted, and Carlisle glared at me from his seat. But I wasn't commentating on my fellow students; their intellects were about as shining as any other humans I'd met. No, I took issue with the label. I met Carlisle's gaze as the speaker droned on, and whispered very quickly, "I've seen how he treats 'valuable natural resources'."

Carlisle's eyes widened for a moment as his thoughts turned the clear cut adjacent to our property; then he fought a smile as he switched his attention back to the speaker.

_All the same… behave yourself. We don't want your fellow students thinking you don't respect them._

Heavens no.

The speech was interminable. Then we each stood and walked to the podium to receive our diploma. When my name was called, Carlisle actually looked the part of a proud uncle. After the ceremony, I joined him where he was talking to some other townsfolk. He was a popular man, our Dr. Cullen.

"Congratulations, Edward," he said when I approached, pulling me into a brief hug.

"Thanks, Uncle."

"Mr. Gibb, allow me to introduce my nephew, Edward Masen. Edward, this is John Gibb. I operated on his leg a few months back."

"Saved my leg, is more like. They was gonna cut it off as a lost cause, but your uncle said he could fix the artery. Thanks to him, I can still support my family."

"Are you still mining, then?" Carlisle asked.

"It's the best work I'm fit to do," Mr. Gibb said shrugging. Then he leaned into Carlisle conspiratorially. "But I'm a bit more picky about which tunnels I settle in these days. I don't want to be a repeat visitor to you, Doc."

"No," Carlisle chuckled. "Once is enough for both of us, I think."

"My Jason graduated today, an' I'm hopin' he'll be fit for some other sort of work. I'd best be joinin' him and his mum, but I just wanted to thank you again, Doc." Mr. Gibb gave us each a small tip of his hat in farewell, and moved away through the crowd.

Carlisle watched the man walk away, checking for a limp.

"Carlisle, he's fine. You do good work. Can we go now? We don't want to look like we're lingering for a party invitation." I eyed the two Miss Sandersons across the room.

"Perhaps you're right," he said, steering me out the door and toward the car. "Dr. Mead asked if we were going to a White Sox game while we were in Chicago…are you sure you don't want to go back to the house and get your cap before we head out?"

I glared at him. Baseball was out of the question; he knew this. I refused to go to another game until the Baseball Commissioners cleared Joe Jackson's name. Maybe some of the other players had thrown the 1919 World Series, but I was convinced he wasn't involved. I'd been to enough of the games and had watched him play vigorously, with genuine effort. And more convincingly, I'd never caught a devious thought from _him_, though that was not the sort of evidence that would stand up in court. I could imagine the cross examination now, and just how long it would take the Volturi to reduce me to a pile of ash. Carlisle and I had argued about Jackson's involvement for days. And I was _not_ just having a hard time dealing with the fall of a childhood hero. This was about justice.

"Or perhaps we should go to a Cubs game."

I scoffed. "Just get in the car, Carlisle." He fought another smile as he unlocked the doors while I peeled off my cap and robe, throwing them in the back seat. He'd bought this car when we started making regular trips to Chicago. It made much better time than the truck. I rolled the sleeves up on my dress shirt and relaxed into the seat. "Please tell me I never need to do that again."

"What, graduate from high school?"

I nodded.

"I'm afraid I can't promise that," he chuckled. "Do you know how many times I've been to medical school?"

I remembered seeing several graduation ceremonies in his memories over the last year and a half. "Ten?" I guessed.

"A few more than that, not to mention other degrees I've earned. Sometimes it's necessary to repeat. Knowledge changes. And we have to do something with our time."

I sighed, looking out the window at the familiar town retreating. "Fine, but I'm waiting at least a decade."

He laughed, turning the car onto the main road and heading southeast out of town. "That sounds fair. Besides, there's a college here in town…with a music program."

I looked at him, trying to decide if he was serious. "I think I should probably wait another year before I commit to sitting in a room all day with twenty humans. My control is good, but…" I shook my head, not really wanting to finish that thought. I still had no real idea how Carlisle managed to be surrounded by them all day…well, all night. He worked the night shifts.

"Take whatever time you need, Edward. You could always audit a single course, just to get some experience with it. Maybe music theory, or composition…something that would be hard to pick up on your own."

"I'll think about it. Right now, I just want time away from studies. You're right, though; I don't want to get bored." I thought about the mostly untouched staff paper the Scotts had given me for Christmas year before last. A composition class might actually be helpful.

"We should be in Chicago in fifteen hours. Do you want to hunt on the way?"

"Sure, but let's wait until dark…"

Our visits to Chicago always felt like a both an adventure and a homecoming. This is where we first met, and in some ways, it felt more like home than the lodge, even if we were in parts of the city that were new to us. As we sought out new jazz venues or went to symphonies, we were constantly exploring new neighborhoods. But we also spent time in the farmhouse. It wasn't exactly homey, since most of our possessions were in Ashland, but there was just enough there to make us feel comfortable when we needed some time away from the crowds: two chairs, a chess board, some books, a piano, and two closets full of suits for going out on the town at night. What more could we want in a home away from home?

The graduation trip was longer than most. Carlisle usually worked two weeks straight, and then got four days off. Some of those he was on call. Fortunately, our home in Ashland had telephone service. Mr. McGovern had thought himself too important to be without a phone in his hunting lodge. The days Carlisle was off and not on call, we'd either go north into Canada for a long hunt, or south to Chicago to hear music. Since this was a special occasion, however, he'd worked straight through four weeks, and we had six days in a row during which he was not on call.

Over the next few months, we reveled in the sheer variety of music. The best jazz, stunning symphonies, even opera: Chicago boasted a music scene that could only be rivaled by New York. Carlisle enjoyed it almost as much as I did; he was more comfortable in an opera house than a nightclub, but he went wherever I did, pretending to sip glasses of scotch to satisfy the drink minimum. While in Ashland we were upstanding, mild mannered citizens, polite, but private. We'd never dream of attending the dances at the small ballroom on Lakeshore. But in Chicago we were relatively anonymous. We could go anywhere, see anything, and feel confident that our identities were safe. And so we did… climbing stairs to the balconies of large theaters downtown or descending them into basement speakeasies. Music was a passion we truly shared, though he was strictly enjoying listening to the music, whereas I was always trying to figure out how to play it. And that was what finally drove me to take Carlisle's advice and audit a composition class at Northland College in the fall semester of 1920.

Carlisle still worked nights at the hospital. My schedule was more complicated. Nights were spent hunting or playing my glorious nine-foot Steinway. The acoustics in the music room of the lodge were so much better than the farmhouse…or even most jazz venues in Chicago. The whole house would fill with music, and I quickly realized that Carlisle liked it best when he could hear me play as he approached the house after a long night at the hospital. Four days a week I'd continue to play for him, sharing what I'd worked on the night before. Three times a week my playing would be cut short by my appointment at the college with Professor Evans.

The rest of the day we'd run errands, play chess, maintain the lodge, or run patrols. We were still getting the occasional poacher; I took great delight in well-placed growls and roars that would make these hunters think that the woods were home to something far more dangerous than a wild cat or bear. There were now rumors in town that our woods were haunted, or home to a strange beast. When asked about it, Carlisle and I just answered honestly that we had never been threatened by an unrecognized beast, and that we felt perfectly safe at the lodge.

I was running one of these patrols after sunset in early October when I caught a faint new scent at the northern border of our property. This was not the direction from which most of the hunters came. I stopped running so I could listen. Overhead, the red and copper leaves rustled in the wind, masking any footfalls. Well, I could use that to my advantage, too. Carlisle was already at the hospital. I'd have to scare this lost soul off on my own.

As I followed the scent south it got stronger and more complex. Were there two? At least two. I didn't smell gunpowder, so they were careful, as hunters went. I stopped again in my tracks, sniffing the bracken fern at my knees — and then found myself dropped into a crouch and hissing unintentionally. They weren't human. The two that had invaded our territory were not human. They smelled like Carlisle, only not. Nomadic vampires had stumbled upon us, and Carlisle was at the hospital. This could not be good.

I leapt into the maple branches, grateful that the fall colors were at their peak and the leaves had not yet dropped to the forest floor. I had good cover, and I knew this forest better than whoever was below. I moved south using the branches, trying to keep my feet quiet, and hoping that the wind continued to absorb the sound of the limbs quaking under my weight as I progressed. I needed to get ahead of them. I didn't want them in our home. The desire to protect was almost overwhelming; it nearly made me sloppy in my haste.

Then I caught their thoughts. One was fearful. She…I think it was a she… felt exposed, fretful. She worried that this could all be a huge mistake. _That's right. It is a big mistake. You shouldn't be here_, I thought as I navigated the branches. The other mind was wary, but curious. He didn't recognize the dominant scent, but was fairly certain the other was his friend. He wondered why there were two of us. He wondered if he would be welcomed. _Not very welcome, no._ I arced to my left so I could get ahead of them without alerting them to my presence. I wanted to see them before they saw or heard me. They were proceeding cautiously, slowly. We were still a mile from the house when I was able to circle back and intercept their path. I'd been monitoring their thoughts the entire time. They weren't speaking…trying to sneak up on us. But no, that wasn't right. They were concentrating on our scents, and listening. They had heard me, but they couldn't make sense of the sounds, and now I was still. They were guarded. I, on the other hand, was feeling more relaxed now that I was between them and the house. The confrontation was coming, and it would not be in the house…they wouldn't be able to harm Carlisle's things, or invade our home. Now I just needed to learn as much as I could before I had to fight them. I was sure I could, if necessary. But Carlisle had taught me to be strategic. I had them _where_ I wanted them, and I had the element of surprise. I just needed to decide how to engage them.

The male's thoughts seemed familiar. Which was impossible. I didn't know any vampires other than Carlisle. He considered himself Carlisle's friend, but Carlisle didn't have any friends other than me…well, and Aro, but this hardly seemed like Aro's style. Actually, he was unsure of Carlisle's friendship, but he was hopeful. And it hit me who this might be, just as they came into view through the leaves. He stopped, suddenly throwing his arm out to keep her from moving forward. He scanned the forest floor. He was aware of my presence. My brows furrowed as I pondered that. How did he know I was near? I was downwind, so he hadn't smelled me. He was scanning the shrubs, so he hadn't heard me. He tilted his head, as if he were trying to make sense of something, and I smirked, realizing what was happening.

_I know you are there. Show yourself. We mean you no harm._

Well, I wasn't going to accept that at face value, but I was feeling much better about the situation. I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and then jumped down onto the path about thirty feet from where he stood. Even though he'd called out to me, I'd startled him. He hadn't expected me to drop from the sky. I'd have to tell Carlisle his tree-ambush had worked…assuming I came out of this situation alive. The male crouched, arms out to protect the female behind him. I stood up, my lips twitching as I studied his face; his thoughts were spinning, trying to make sense of me: who was I? Was I going to fight?

"Hello, Eleazar. You've changed your diet," I said, noting his golden eyes. The female's eyes were amber as well.

He straightened up, realizing I was not going to attack, but his expression was still cautious. "You have me at a disadvantage, I'm afraid. I don't believe I know you."

"No," I said. "But I know who you're looking for."

His eyes widened. "Are you Carlisle's mate?"

"His what?" Images flooded my mind. I grimaced. "No, definitely not. But I am his family."

Eleazar grinned, visibly relaxing. "Is he well? Will you take me to him?"

I raised my hands to stop his questions. "Why are you here, Eleazar?"

He was taken aback. _To find Carlisle…_

"Yes, but why? Were you sent? Carlisle left the Volturi long ago…"

"Oh, I see your concern. No, I wasn't sent by Aro. The brothers don't even know I've come to the New World. Well, I don't think they know. I left the Volturi as well. _We_ left them," he said, reaching around the female's waist and pulling her to his side. They were mates; it was clear even to me now. "We are on our way to Alaska, and I knew that Carlisle stayed to the north. We've been searching for him for weeks. We found Siobhan in Dublin before we crossed, and her last address for Carlisle was Chicago. We found his scent there…and yours… and have been exploring this part of the country ever since. We wanted to find his home, rather than track him down in town where he was trying to maintain his façade."

I nodded, checking his thoughts to make sure he wasn't lying to me.

"This is Carmen. She arrived in Italy after Carlisle left; I wanted them to meet. I was always fond of Carlisle, and now that we will be on the same continent…" His words trailed off. He was hoping that I would approve of his friendship. He thought I had more say over Carlisle's life than I did.

"It's nice to meet you, Carmen. And you, Eleazar. I'm Edward."

"How long have you known Carlisle?"

"Since he changed me in the fall of 1918."

"He changed you?" Eleazar was clearly shocked. His thoughts swirled around Carlisle, and how lonely he must have been to do such a thing.

"That was part of it, but I was dying when he found me; my mother begged him to save me just before she succumbed to the Spanish Influenza…I wouldn't have been far behind her if Carlisle hadn't interfered."

The full moon was high enough now to be visible through the leaves, and it bathed us in mottled moonlight. I appraised the two vampires in front of me. They seemed sincere. Carlisle was genuinely fond of Eleazar, though he'd been hesitant to establish a friendship while under the brothers' eyes. I had to assume Carlisle would want them welcomed. I was almost sure of it. And I didn't really want to stand out in the forest all night.

"Do either of you need to hunt?" I asked. Their eyes looked light, but it seemed polite to offer. It had been a long time since I'd entertained guests…I doubted whether any of my mother's teachings would be helpful. Tea and cookies, for instance, did not seem applicable. So I offered the local herd of deer instead.

"No thank you, Edward, we hunted only yesterday." It was Carmen who answered. Her thoughts were growing calmer with every passing minute.

"Well, let's head to the house, then." I motioned my arm for them to walk ahead of me, still not willing to turn my back to them. I fell into step with them as they walked by.

"So, Eleazar. How did you know I was in the tree? Did you sense my talent?"

He smiled. "Did Carlisle explain that I could do that?"

I nodded.

"Yes, I sensed your talent, though it's not quite like anything I've felt before…it's different from Aro's gift. And I could only tell that the talent was near. I couldn't localize it very well. I didn't know you were in the tree. How is it that you know me, if you don't mind me asking?"

I led them down the path, pondering how much to explain.

"When Carlisle was teaching me combat and self defense, he remembered his classes with you to get us started." Eleazar looked amused and pleased. He was encouraged to think that Carlisle looked back on their time together fondly, as he did. He hoped Carlisle would be pleased to see him. _You and me, both, Eleazar._ "When did you start eating animals?"

The questions flowed more and more easily, and Carmen even joined the conversation. We approached the house, and Carmen seemed delighted with it. "Come in," I said. "Oh, actually, let me get some more firewood."

Ten minutes later, we were all settled in the library, and I had fires burning in both the library and music room hearths.

"Why did you bother, Edward? Surely you aren't worried that we'd be uncomfortable?" Carmen asked.

"No," I laughed. "The temperature fluctuations are bad for the piano. Plus, the cold depresses Carlisle."

"He must have really been depressed in Volterra then; that castle is freezing all the time."

"I think he was, actually," I said. Eleazar looked a bit sad. We sat awkwardly. All the things he wanted to discuss, he wanted to discuss with Carlisle. Telling me now would just mean repeating himself later. It seemed best to me that we wait as well. I was fairly certain that Eleazar would be welcome, but I couldn't be completely sure. Until I _knew_ Carlisle approved, this was about as gracious a host as I was willing to be.

They scanned the titles of the books on the shelves, and we struggled to find topics for conversation. Finally Carmen asked about the piano, and we spent several hours discussing music. There were several composers they'd seen in Italy that I'd never heard of…they were lost to the depths of time. But many others I was familiar with. Carmen had a nice voice, singing some of the lost melodies for me.

Abruptly, Carlisle's thoughts intruded into my mind. He was worried that I was not playing. And then he caught a whiff of their scents; he was afraid…very afraid.

_That's Eleazar… I'm almost certain… and he's brought someone with him. Is he still with the Guard? No! No, No, NO! Edward! Edward, what has happened to him?_

"Eleazar," I asked standing quickly and moving to the piano. "Was there a particular composer you and Carlisle both heard in Italy?"

"Um… Scarlatti? Domenico Scarlatti.

Perfect. I launched into a Sonata, melodic and pensive. I hoped he'd hear it through his panic. I hoped he would understand the significance, but I would be satisfied to just relieve his fear. I sighed in relief when he heard the music and knew I was safe. Eleazar and Carmen stood by the piano, watching me play. They turned toward the door slightly as we all heard the car approach, and then shut off. They waited anxiously as I played on.

_Edward, who is with you?_ I heard his steps coming toward the house. Carmen grew nervous again.

"A friend, I believe," I muttered, knowing that Eleazar would hear me. "Perhaps two." Carmen smiled.

The sonata came to an end, and Carlisle opened the front door, filled with trepidation and concern for me. His eyes grew wide as they fell upon our guests.

"Eleazar?"

"Hello, old friend. I'm sorry if we worried you." Eleazar took a small step forward, offering his hand. Carlisle was so shocked, he couldn't move.

"They've left the Volturi, Carlisle," I added, wanting to make it clear that I hadn't been reckless to bring them to our home. Carlisle called the brothers friends, but he was also deeply suspicious of the them. And he didn't want them to know about me yet.

"Eleazar, I can't believe it. I can't believe you're here!" Carlisle finally managed to unglue his feet and take not only the procured hand, but embrace Eleazar with his other arm. Relief poured off Eleazar as he reciprocated. "How did you ever find me?" Carlisle asked.

"Siobhan's information got us as far as Chicago, but it still took us several weeks to locate you. We are going to live with Kate, Tanya, and Irina."

"The succubae?" he asked, glancing at Carmen.

"Well, they are trying to change their evil ways," Eleazar said laughing. "We ran into Kate in Budapest, and she said they grew tired of killing their lovers. They have been drinking from animals for a few decades now, but with only mixed success. When she saw that Carmen and I were better at our control, she invited us to live with them for a while. It's moral support for them and a destination for us. They have a large home, and a plethora of game at their doorstep. And we've never had grizzly bear."

Carlisle laughed. "An arrangement that benefits all, I see."

"Exactly. I don't know how long we'll stay," he said, wrapping an arm around Carmen's shoulder. "And now, Carlisle, I'd like to introduce Carmen, my mate. Carmen, this is Carlisle, one of my oldest friends, though we've been out of touch for a while. I hope we'll be able to become reacquainted, now that we'll be neighbors of sorts."

"Carmen, I'm delighted," Carlisle said taking her hand and kissing it. When had he become such an old charmer? Actually, all his mannerisms seemed slightly more old-fashioned in front of Eleazar. I would have to give him grief about that later. "And you've met Edward, my…companion."

"Yes, he tracked us quite stealthily before he wanted to be seen, and then he ambushed us. You've trained him well, Carlisle, though I hear I helped," he said with a twitch of his lips.

"He ambushed you?" Carlisle looked at me with wide eyes.

"It seems even the great Eleazar forgets to look up sometimes," I said smirking. Carlisle barked out a laugh.

"A mistake I won't repeat soon," Eleazar added.

"It took me a while to recognize them…well, him. I intercepted them near the ridge…it would have been a good place to fight, if it came to that. But once I saw who it was, I was fairly confident that wasn't necessary."

"Well done, Edward," Carlisle said, placing a hand on my shoulder. I was pleased by his praise, and I was sure it showed on my face.

"I'll play some more, so you two can catch up." I was relieved that I'd made the right decision, inviting them to the house. Carlisle seemed pleased to have them with us, and it was good to see him so animated.

Carlisle and Eleazar talked for hours. Sometimes Carmen joined in the conversation; sometimes she sat near the piano and watched me play. We made a game of it. She'd sing a few notes, and if I recognized the melody, I'd play the piece. She searched her mind for more and more obscure works. Sometimes I could read the rest of the melody in her mind, and fake my way through part of it. Once I took the melody and turned it into a rag. Carmen's laughter pealed through the house.

"Carmen has made a friend," I heard Eleazar say to Carlisle.

"Edward has his charm and wit, to be sure." I could hear the smile in his voice.

"That he does," Eleazar chuckled. "He's rather protective of you."

"That's mutual. It's been just the two of us for a while. He's good company, and a good friend."

"I'm very pleased to find that you are not alone in the world, Carlisle."

Carlisle didn't answer, but I could see his pleased expression through Eleazar's mind. We were not bound together in the same way Carmen and Eleazar were, but we were bound nonetheless.

They stayed with us for five days. Carlisle actually called in sick to the hospital and skipped his shifts, just to spend time with them. We took them hunting, raced, and sparred. Fighting Eleazar was challenging, but I was already familiar with most of his moves. Carmen was another matter. She took advantage of the fact that I was hesitant to strike a woman, and had me pinned in a few moments.

"Oh, Edward, you're going to have to get over your chivalry if you want to best Carmen," Eleazar called, eyeing his mate affectionately.

"So I gathered," I muttered to everyone's amusement. She never pinned me again, but she did better against me than either Carlisle or Eleazar.

I heard countless stories from those two relating to the personalities in Volterra. Carlisle and Eleazar had different insights into the brothers, and it was interesting seeing them puzzle things together. They told each other of their adventures since leaving Italy. Carlisle described his struggles to become a physician, and the satisfaction he felt in curing others. That naturally led to my story, which led to Eleazar describing how he met Carmen.

Carmen was a delight… soft spoken, but honest and funny. She and Eleazar were like the two parts of a song. Eleazar provided the deep chords, grounding them; Carmen's melody wove through him, bringing lightness and space. They moved together physically as I would imagine notes moving. There was give and take. It was beautiful to see. I thought I remembered my parents being that way a little, but it was all very fuzzy. Carlisle watched them too, with both admiration and a touch of wistfulness.

When it was finally time for them to go, it was a hard parting. They were a pair. And in our way, Carlisle and I were a pair as well. Carlisle was my family, but I could now sense a broadening of the term. Eleazar and Carmen were family too. Cousins, perhaps. Carlisle felt the same, though trying to place labels on it made the relationship feel elusive. Carmen gave us each a hug, and Eleazar invited us to visit anytime.

"We'll write when we get there, Carlisle. I'm sure you and Edward would be welcome."

"We'll let you get settled in first. Say hello to the sisters for me. I think you are in for quite an adventure. And we won't lose touch this time, Eleazar. If we have to move, I'll write you in Denali."

"And we'll do the same," he said. Turning to me, he added, "Edward, take care of my old friend, will you?"

I laughed. "I'll do my best, but he doesn't always take my advice. And don't _you_ forget to look up when in strange forests. We don't want to lose our teacher," I said, giving his shoulders a quick hug.

"Scamp," he complained affectionately. They gave us one last parting wave, and turned to walk north through the woods. Carlisle put his hand on my shoulder as we watched them disappear through the trees.

"You have nice friends, Carlisle."

"They're your friends now, too."

"I know. So much the better."

He laughed, and we went back inside. The lodge now seemed very large and empty. Carlisle felt their absence as well, though his mind was content. He wasn't used to having such a full house, and while he enjoyed it, part of him was pleased to revert back to the two of us. He smiled at me, enjoying the quiet, but thinking how it felt out of place.

"Shall I play, or do you prefer the silence?"

"You've been playing for the benefit of others all week, Edward. Do what _you'd_ wish; I'll be satisfied with whatever you choose."

His mind betrayed no preference. I put on a Vivaldi record and got a book I'd heard Eleazar and Carlisle discuss from the library shelves. Carlisle was building a fire, and we both pulled our chairs in a little closer than they'd been. We no longer needed to accommodate two others in our conversation; there was no need to be spread out. We sat together, reading in front of the fire, taking comfort in mutual companionship while simultaneously lost in our own books. From time to time we'd share what we were reading, but for the most part we were content in our quiet tranquility. It was a relief after the activity of the week.

The leaves continued to change, and then fell, and then the snow fell. Our lives remained largely the same. My class ended, but I continued to play. Carlisle continued to work the night shift. We continued our adventures in Chicago and hunting trips into Canada. We exchanged Christmas gifts and went ice-skating. We received letters from Eleazar, and we bought an atlas and a book on Alaska so we could better plan a trip, highlighting all the types of game we wished to try. Carlisle started teaching me languages, and I exchanged letters with Eleazar and Carmen in Italian, for the practice.

And though it was hard for me to really be sure, since so many of my human memories were faded, I was reasonably confident that I'd never felt so content in my life.

CPOV – February 1921

"Dr. Cullen! A word, please."

_Here it comes._ I started suturing the wound closed. The operation had been successful. This one was going to live. But there had been so many others...

"Dr. Cullen!"

"Please put a mask on, sir, if you wish to speak to me while I'm operating." It was standard procedure, but he still glared at me, despite the fact that I'd kept the bite out of my tone.

Frederic Jones raised his mask over his mouth and walked over to the table, watching me work for a moment. Then he held up the duty roster and sign in sheets.

"Dr. Cullen, is it some mistake in record keeping, or have you actually been operating for twenty-two hours, and on duty for…" he looked at the chart again, "fifty-one hours?"

I sighed. "Sir, the train derailment occurred just as my double shift was ending, but there were so many casualties…I just took a table. Every time I cleared it, the nurses brought a new victim. I feel fine. I just want to help my colleagues get through this rush, and then I'll go home."

"No, Cullen." I _hated_ when he did that. "This is your last patient. You are skipping your next two shifts. I don't want to see you in this hospital for five days, or you will be banned from it permanently. This," he raised the forms in his hands, "this could shut us down."

_Only if you get caught._ I'd become much more blasé about changing medical records since Chicago.

"Cullen?"

"I understand, sir. I'll just finish closing this one up, and then I'll check out."

"Good."

"Dr. Jones? You're needed in triage. Ten more have just been admitted." The nurse, who had poked her head into the O.R., ran back out without confirming he'd gotten the message. It had been like this for so long.

"On my way." He looked at me again, and I wondered if he was going to rescind his orders. He sighed, looking tired and human. "Carlisle, you've done good work here today, and I _do_ appreciate your dedication to your patients and your colleagues. This is just too much. We're already under scrutiny because of the things that happened after the mining accident. Just, go home and get some rest for a few days. We'll be okay."

It wasn't an apology, but it was as good as I would ever get from him. "I understand, sir," I repeated. He walked out of the room through the double doors at the far end. The nurse looked sympathetically at me as she prepped the other tables for the new arrivals. In a moment, freshly scrubbed doctors would be coming in from triage with their new patients. I needed to finish before I was tempted to disobey again.

"Hey, Doc?" I heard someone call out from the doors behind me…the ones that led in the direction of the morgue. "Doc, we got three more Does… a John and two Janes. No one's down there for processing."

"The priority is with the living at the moment."

"I need to get back to the scene, though. There's still one more car they're clearing."

"Just leave the Does. I'll check them in on my way out."

"Doc?"

I smiled at his confusion. "The chief of staff just ordered me home…I'd stay, but…"

He chuckled. "Say no more, Doc. Have a good rest. Those Does are waiting in the morgue. I'm heading back out."

"Take care, Andy."

I finished with the patient and helped the nurse get the bed ready just as the new patients came in. Dr. Evans was taking over my table. I nodded to him, and he smiled sympathetically, too. Great. So everyone had heard.

"Do you need anything before I go, Michael?" I asked. The nurse brought over a clean tray of instruments.

"No, Carlisle. We'll be fine. See you in a few days."

I walked out of the O.R. just as it started bustling with new arrivals. It felt wrong to leave, but I had no choice. I threw my gown and mask into the laundry basket, collected my wallet and keys, signed out, and went down to the morgue.

It was a mess too. I saw the new arrivals in the corner, sheets covering their bodies. The first chart I picked up was the male's. John Doe, pulled from car eighteen. Dead on the scene from head trauma and internal injuries. I pulled the sheet down and examined the body. _That looks about right_. I signed the sheet, adding a time of death, and moved him closer to the other Johns for identification.

I picked up the next chart. Jane Doe. Thrown from the train. Found at the base of the cliff. Dead on the scene from head trauma and internal injuries. _Thrown from the train? _That doesn't make sense…

_PA-Puhm._

I lowered the chart and looked around the room. One of the Does was alive. This one. Now that I was looking for it, I could feel the subtle heat emanating from her body. I tore back the sheet and gasped.

_No, no, no…_

I knew this face…this high brow and full lips, now tinged blue. I knew these caramel-colored curls, now caked with blood and dirt. I knew the curve of this neck. I scanned the rest of her body smelling and seeing her injuries: broken ribs, broken hip, internal bleeding, fractured femur. The old break was still noticeable. I touched her leg where I had once set the bone. I could feel under her mud-caked stockings where it had knitted together. Then I saw her arm. There was a healed break there as well, but it had not been set properly. I ghosted my fingers over it, feeling where the bones were not lined up properly. My fingers continued to examine her. Her wrist, too, had been broken, more recently than the arm. There was a thickened portion of her skull over her left temple: another injury. My brows furrowed as my fingers grazed her ribcage. More healed bones, older injuries. A sob escaped me.

"Oh, Esme," I whispered, "What has the world done to you?"

_PA-puhm._

I looked at the center of her chest, where her heart continued to fight its losing battle. I had known all those years ago that she had a strong heart. I wondered if it was strong enough.

I was on the precipice again. I remembered her shining, knowing eyes, her open expression, her soft laugh, her soft skin… I should _not _be considering this. There is no pleading mother this time. She won't even remember me. But her life had been tragic; I could read it like a book on her skeleton. And I did not want that to be her story.

A noise from the hallway startled me, and I found myself in a crouch, hissing softly… a protective response. I was already responding by instinct…compulsion. I knew then it wasn't a choice.

I crumpled the sheet of paper on her chart, shoved it in my pocket, grabbed Esme, and fled. She had never been here. They would never know she'd been here.

I abandoned the car. I could run faster. It was still dark, and I flew to the west, out of town.

_Pa-puhm_.

I got to the edge of town, through the farmland, and to the edge of our forest, listening for her heartbeat. It was growing fainter. Soon, it would not be able to pump the venom through her body. I turned north and entered the forest, running and listening.

_Hang on, Esme. Hang on. Fight with me. I will fight for you, but you have to fight too._

_pa-puhm._

I found a clearing and laid her down, kneeling beside her in the frozen, brown moss. She wasn't going to make it to the house. I brushed her hair away from her face. It was tear-streaked and filthy and beautiful. I wanted to take all her pain away. Try, at least, to take it all away. But first, I could only deliver more.

I moved the collar of her dress, exposing her pulse point, stroking it gently.

"Forgive me, Esme. I swear to you, this is the only time I will ever knowingly cause you pain. Please fight," I whispered, placing my hands on the forest floor on either side of her head, leaning over her. I lowered my mouth to her neck, my lips grazing her skin as I whispered, "Please come back…"

My teeth sliced through her skin and into her carotid artery, and her sweet blood seeped into my mouth. I groaned, wrapping my lips over the soft silk of her throat to seal our connection. I lowered myself to my elbows, hovering over her as I drank a mouthful and shuddered, my entire body pulsating.

_pa-puhm._

Venom flooded my mouth and I pumped it into her. The taste of her blood softened on my tongue as my venom overwhelmed it. I remained locked in the bite, my mouth moving in rhythm over her throat to push in my venom, my face buried in her skin and hair, and I was drowning…drowning in the feel and smell and taste of her. Drowning in her as I tried to drown her in my venom.

_pa-puhm._

Closing my eyes and willing myself to pull away, I slid my teeth out of her artery and licked her wound closed. Caressed it closed, over and over, until there was only the slightest trace of a raised crescent scar. My mind was clearing, and I was shocked to find myself sprawled diagonally across her chest, my forearms caging her shoulders protectively, and my fingers coiled deeply into her lose curls. I disentangled my fingers from her hair and put a more respectable distance between us. The doctor in me took over again, and I pulled back each sleeve and injected venom into her brachial arteries, high on her arms, where the scar would not be visible. Then I lowered her sleeves, straightened her collar, and waited. She was completely still.

"Please, Esme. Please. Let me try," I pleaded softly.

I sat in the moss next to her, hugging my arms to my chest, and watched her carefully for any sign of change. Her breathing was slow and shallow, as it had been since I found her. Her lips were bluer…her complexion more ashen.

I'd waited too long. I was going to lose her. I never liked losing patients, and I now was going to lose _her_.

_No. Please, Esme..._

Silence answered me. The wind blew through the trees. My own breath grew shallow as I tried to listen for any sound from her: a breath, a moan, a scream. Anything. But there was only silence and my own breath and the wind in the trees. I was too late…too late. I'd failed her.

"NO!" I screamed my anguish to the heavens. I squeezed my eyes closed, gasping. Why should I feel this pain? I felt…lost.

_pa-puhm._

My eyes grew wide as I stared at the center of her chest.

_Again, Esme. Again._ I waited.

_pa-puhm. Pa-puhm._

I choked back a sob as a smile broke across my face. Her heartbeat grew steadier and stronger.

_Thank you, Esme. I'm sorry for the pain, but thank you._

I scooped her up in my arms again and ran to the house. As I finally approached, Edward was standing on the porch, stunned.

"Carlisle, what have you done?" he hissed.

"It's her, Edward," I answered as I walked through the door and into the library. I set her down on the sofa.

He looked at her face, tilting his head. "The broken leg?"

I nodded. "Except this time, everything's broken. She was thrown from the train. She…I had to help her; I had to try. I'm changing her."

"You're changing _everything_!" he cried.

I looked at him and saw the pain on his face. I should have talked with him first. This would affect him too. But there had been no time… no time… and I had to try.

"Yes."

**AN: I'm sorry, this is a very long note even for me…I'll put in headings, in case you want to skip anything…just make sure to read the last paragraph.**

**First, the music**:

Joe "King" Oliver, the cornet champion of New Orleans, migrated to Chicago in 1918, where he played with the Original Creole Orchestra. In 1922, he took over the band and it morphed into King Oliver's Creole Jazz Band, with Louis Armstrong playing second cornetist to Joe's first. Edward and Carlisle saw the Original Creole Orchestra, but since they never recorded, here's a 1923 recording of The Creole Jazz Band's Riverside Blues (with great postcards of Chicago).

http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=j_WbQYdQty0&feature=related

And here's the New Orleans Rhythm Kings' Baby Brown. This band was playing in the Friar's Inn in 1920, but didn't start recording until 1923.

http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=Ws3Qwr5snWE

The idea for the graduation speech is not original. I stole it from Utah Phillips, famous for his rants (This whole album is wonderful: poignant, funny, and rich):

http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=xuegVoHM4tY

Edward played this for Carlisle to reassure him as he approached the house:

Domenico Scarlatti's Sonata K 99 - L 317:

http : / www . youtube . com / watch?v=5Wl2zzkJRFs&feature=related

**Awards:** Prelude is up for an Eternity Award, a Shimmer Award, and a Hopeless Romantic Award. I'll put the links on my profile page. The voting for the Eternity Awards finishes on the 5th, so that's soon. The voting rules may be found here: http : / the-eternity-awards . webs . com / rules . htm. The others are still nominating. I want to thank everyone who nominated or voted for Prelude. It still seems vaguely unreal.

**Recommendations:** First, more canon fics. I've mentioned it before, but anything by Mackenzie L. (http : / www . fanfiction . net / u / 1790058 /) is worth reading. She specializes in Carlisle/Esme, and it's all beautiful. If you ever see her up for an award **coughHopelessRomanticscough**, please consider voting for her. (For that matter, consider voting for anyone I've listed here or in other chapters…they are all wonderful). As I enter this part of my story, I will be fighting against her fanon. There will be some similarities…we both write canon, and some similarities can't be helped. But I will try to not be overly influenced by her amazing universe, and forge my own way instead. I purposely avoid other authors that write this time period, in order to avoid influence, but I was already sucked into Mack's universe, and once you're there, you can't really find an exit. If you read Stained Glass Soul, be sure to also read it's companion Behind Stained Glass…makes me ache every time.

Also mentioned before, anything by Owenic (http : / www . fanfiction . net / u / 2359107 /) is fabulous…canon, AH B/E, AH slash…she does it all beautifully. I like her non-drabble fics the best, but I read it all.

Now to some non-canon fics.

I have a soft spot for Carlisle/Bella fics (because, you know, CARLISLE is in them, and I'm rather fond of him). Two of my best author/friends have wonderful versions of the genre.

Zoya Zalan (http : / www . fanfiction . net / u / 2397671 / Zoya_Zalan) has First Night and For All Eternity, vampie AU stories in a strange beautiful universe in which everyone knows everyone…in the Biblical sense…very compelling. She also has a new AH story called Playing with Fire that is just a few chapters in so far, but promises a lot of angst and sexy times.

StormDragonfly (http : / www . fanfiction . net / u / 1969813 /) wrote the amazing One Weekend, which is a powerful and sexy AU (but not too far off the beaten path) story. It's fairly short, and very sweet. Her WIP is a beautiful and complex AU with many non-canon pairings, intense psychology, and a Bella who actually grows up. It's just wonderful, but I should warn that I'm not unbiased, as I beta it.

As always, I can be found on Twitter at ATONAU. I generally tweet as I write and edit, and answer questions.

**Outtakes: **And finally, I have a new character, but don't want to introduce her POV in the main body of the story. So, from now on, reviewers of Prelude will receive outtakes from Esme's POV… most chapters, if not every chapter. These outtakes will not be necessary for understanding the story in most cases, but will deepen your understanding. This chapter's outtake occurs in 1911…

Thanks so much for reading.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: Thanks to my wonderful beta Coleen561, who really helped me rework several passages. Also thanks to Malianani, Woodlily, Gisellelx, and StormDragonfly, my writing and preread buddies. You ladies kept it fun this month as I struggled to hear what Edward was telling me.**

**Sorry this chapter took so long folks… Edward didn't do what I expected him to, and it took us a while to sort it out. The boy surprises me sometimes.**

**SM owns the boys. Oh, and Esme too.**

Chapter 18

CPOV

From the moment that Edward had awakened from his transformation, my life had seemed complete. Solitude no longer haunted me. Whether I was at home or at the hospital, whether we were civilized or hunting by instinct, for two and a half years he had been there, in my heart and mind and life. Even during those gray months, when I'd been sure he was leaving, and that our time together would be a mere flash of light and warmth in the dark, vast sea of my life, I knew that my mind had been forever changed. No matter the distance or time between us, he would always remain a part of me. He had filled my empty life in a way I had never anticipated, and now thoughts of being without Edward were akin to thoughts of losing a limb. He had become my center… my life and thoughts and happiness revolved around his — required his for a sense of purpose and direction.

But now I had two centers. The core of my being had expanded to include another whom I would be just as devoted to. Looking at Esme's broken and slowly changing body on the sofa before me, and at the aching form of Edward standing behind her, they were both there in my heart. And despite the completeness that I'd felt with Edward in my life, I now found that not only did I have room for one more person in my long-dead heart, but that I would experience a sense of emptiness and loss without _both _of them.

How could I have room in my heart for someone new? How is it possible that my heart and mind could change so fundamentally, so rapidly? The Gospel of John echoed in my mind: "In my Father's house are many mansions…" This, of course, referred to God's infinite ability to love each of his children, but perhaps there was an analog for mortals… and, well, in my case, immortals. Perhaps this ability to add another person to an already seemingly full heart was how parents were able to experience such deep love for each of their children.

My loyalties would now be split between that familiar love and camaraderie of the one I'd shared my life with the last several years, and this new, helpless, unfamiliar creature that I was now responsible for. There were two centers of gravity, pulling at my thoughts, my attention, my care, where there had been only one just a few hours earlier. Had my capacity to care also doubled? It felt as though it had. My heart felt larger, as well as divided. Strange dichotomy.

I was finally becoming aware of the full implications of my actions.

And of course, Edward being Edward, as soon as I was aware, he was too. I looked up into his face — a face I was now so adept at reading — and saw an emotion there that I _never_ expected to be responsible for: betrayal.

"Edward," I whispered.

"_WHY_?" he asked, the pain so palpable in his voice. I ached for our loss too. I'd made the decision to initiate this change, but I was still aware of what I was losing. At least I thought I was. The bond we shared would be permanently altered. Perhaps the trials ahead would make us stronger, but just as easily… "We were happy!" His accusation sliced through my thoughts.

"Yes, we were happy." I couldn't deny it, and I had no intention of making him feel less important than he did already. We had always felt complete in and of ourselves. I had not left our home yesterday intent on finding another member of our family. I had not understood that my heart _could_ have another center until I realized she was already there. "My decision had nothing to do with you, or our family life."

"Well, I'm sorry to disagree, Carlisle, but obviously it does." His voice was scathing as he swept his arm out to indicate Esme sprawled on the sofa in the middle of our library. Lying between us. Separating us. In this room that, more than any other, symbolized our life together. Books lining the walls illuminated our minds, illustrated our interests. The chess board, the gramophone, maps of the world, books of philosophy that had sparked conversations lasting _days_ — all evidence of _our_ life together. Edward had his music room, and I had my study, but this was _our_ room. A _men's_ room. She lay in the middle of it seeming more alien than another species. Well, she was another species, at the moment…

"What I mean is, it is not a reflection how happy I've been with you, or our life. I wasn't feeling that we were lacking anything. I wasn't looking for her, she just… she was just there, and I…I…" I couldn't finish. I finally showed him. Edward was always happiest when I was open with him. I showed him everything in the hospital, and the run, and in the clearing. I silently begged him to understand.

He didn't.

"_Why_ did you do it?"

"She was dying."

He scoffed. "People often die in your hospital, Carlisle. If you were drawn to save them all, we'd need something a lot bigger than a lodge to house them.

"Edward, did you see how many broken bones she has?"

"You said she was thrown from the train…"

"No, healed bones… poorly mended bones. My cursory examination revealed at least eight breaks, mostly to her ribs… spanning _years_. Something went terribly wrong in her life, Edward."

"So?" he snapped. "Look, not to be crass, but people lead tragic lives all the time. Do you really think Mildred Jones fell down the stairs last week? Or that waitress in Chicago… did she give herself a black eye? People are walking around half broken everywhere we go." His face twisted, and I was reminded of the burden his gift could be. "So what is it about her," he spat, abruptly pointing at Esme's face, "that has you swooping in to rescue her from her miserable life? A rescue that wasn't even necessary, since the world had seen fit to deliver her from it anyway…"

I sighed, hesitating only a moment. "She saw me."

"She was half dead, Carlisle! Her eyes never opened."

"Before, I mean... when I set her leg. She saw who I was, the man behind the doctor…"

That stopped his fury in its tracks. Confusion mingled with the other emotions warring on his face. "Like my mother?"

I shook my head. "No…no, your mother saw through my human façade…she could tell I was something other than human, but I was still just a doctor to her. She saw something of _what _I am, but Esme saw a bit of _who_ I am." It was true. Elizabeth had seen what was behind the mask; Edward could see into my mind; but Esme…Esme had seemed capable of seeing my very _soul_. "She could see the pain and isolation I hid every day. I… I still don't know how she did it."

"And so you think that justifies _changing_ her?" Incredulity dripped from his words. "If her first life was tragic, you think that having a burning throat for _eternity_ is an improvement? I know you think I'm upset with you for disturbing our tranquil life, but that's not it. Well, it is… I _am_ angry about that. But I'm also angry on her behalf. She didn't ask for this, her mother didn't beg you, and yet you bit her without giving it a moment's consideration. Barely a thought for her and _no_ thought for me. It's the most selfish thing I've ever known you to do. What the hell were you thinking, Carlisle? She's going to be miserable!"

I balked. The air between us had been tense and electrified, but it lost all energy as I sagged against the weight of his words. Everything he said was true. I looked down at Esme where she lay between us. What had I done? Would she ever forgive me? Would _Edward_ ever forgive me? Would I lose him over this? I raised my gaze to him. As he registered my doubt, his eyes flashed briefly with triumph, but then settled into something more akin to pity. I sank down, sitting on the coffee table, my mind reeling at the decision I'd made so rashly. It had felt so right at the time, but now that I was forced to defend it logically, I found I couldn't. And yet, I couldn't bring myself to regret it.

"I just wanted to try to give her a better life," I whispered. "When I first met her, she was so… so _eager_ to see the beauty in the world, to really look at it and reach out and touch it, no matter the cost. To really _feel_ without shame or any attempt to stifle herself. She made everyone around her look like they were sleep walking, me included…_me_ most of all, actually. It was a beautiful thing to behold, Edward…" I trailed off, my head shaking slightly and awe apparent in my voice. She _had_ awed me, all those years ago. What sixteen year old saw the things she noticed — purple thunder clouds and trees with spaces waiting for climbers… hidden secrets in the eyes of her doctor? What human even thought to look for them? "But this time she was ashen, blue-tinged, broken. And then I noticed all those old fractures…" my voice broke.

I felt him move around the sofa to sit beside me. Relief flooded my mind. I knew he was not convinced my actions were right, nor was he happy, but to have him beside me rather than placed across from me felt like a promise, or at least a hope. We both looked at Esme as her shallow panting dominated the sounds in the room.

"Show me," Edward said quietly.

"Show you what?" I asked, looking up at him again.

"Show me the time you set her leg. I'm still trying to understand why you did this." His face no longer showed the anger he'd felt earlier, but there was something else there. He was withholding judgment for the moment, offering me the opportunity to try to make him understand on a visceral level, since I clearly could not justify my actions with logic.

I nodded and then tried to lower whatever barrier had allowed me to shield these memories from Edward in the past, allowing this one to slip through. I consciously ran through my entire encounter with her, showing him exactly what had happened, and everything I'd noticed about her.

I showed Edward her passion for nature and beauty. How she'd viewed the world with an artist's eye, stripping it of the mundane and exposing the raw essence that was concealed. She'd described the world as shapes and color and textures. But the word 'shape' meant so much more to her. Not just area or volume, but emotion.

"_I see the shape of things, and the spaces they make between them, and the hidden shapes. You, for instance. Your eyes are warm and kind, but they hold secret shapes, I think."_

"_What secret shapes?" I whispered._

"… _weariness, and a touch of sadness."_

I showed him how she'd surprised me. She'd seen my weariness and desolation and accepted them without rebuke, shocking my façade from me. She'd shown me honest compassion, the first I'd felt in many, many years. Even now, I could still feel the wonder and excitement of that brief time we spent together.

And when I was done showing him everything I looked back into his face, hoping that he could make enough sense out of it to accept my actions, even if he didn't agree with them. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his right hand pinching the bridge of his nose as he followed the memory with closed eyes.

Without opening them he asked, "Is that all?"

"You've now seen every moment I've ever spent with Esme Platt."

"But is that all? I've seen fleeting glimpses of other memories about her…"

I grimaced. I'd hoped I could keep those to myself. "Those are only memories of the times my thoughts dwelled on her; there's no new information in them."

Edward cocked an eyebrow, though his eyes were still closed. His hand moved up to his brow, rubbing it as he concentrated.

Fighting against the helplessness I felt as I awaited his verdict, I added "She deserves a better life, Edward."

At these words he looked up, glaring at me.

"This may be about many things, Carlisle, but _merit_ isn't one of them."

I was surprised by his sharp words and fell silent again. I watched silently as he buried his face in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his forehead as if trying force his thoughts to stabilize. He scrubbed his face with his hands, and then linked his fingers as he leaned his elbows on his knees again. He looked up at me sideways with the strangest expression: weary, but expectant. He was searching me — my mind and my face. But I had already shared everything of importance with him.

"What?" I asked quietly.

He shook his head and looked at Esme, sighing softly. Oh God, could he hear her pain? Was I torturing him by bringing her here?

"I can't hear her, Carlisle."

Relief washed through me, followed quickly by panic. Something was wrong with Esme. Besides the obvious. "But you hear everyone…"

"Normally, yes." He looked at me again. "How much can venom heal? Have you seen anyone as injured as her go though the transformation?"

I looked at Esme again, this time with a doctor's eye…and nose and ear. I remembered what I'd felt as I carried her: more fractures than could reasonably be counted, internal bleeding— but that was not what Edward was asking about. I had seen the old head trauma, but had there been more? I looked down at the sleeves of my shirt, smeared with blood, but it could have come from anywhere. And then I saw it: a darkening of the skin near the nape of her neck, mostly hidden by her hair. I knelt down and probed it gently, noting the extent of the contusion. It was large and centered on a skull fracture. How had I missed that? I looked back over my shoulder at him.

"You can't hear anything?"

He tilted his head slightly as he watched her, his lips forming a thin line. He was listening, a grim intensity to his demeanor. Then his eyes flickered to mine.

"Maybe there's something, but it's muted and garbled. Like radio static, or a bad telephone connection. There might be something there, but I can't make it out. I'm sorry, Carlisle."

I nodded, though I couldn't help but wonder if he was sincere.

Anger flashed in his eyes. "You think me so uncharitable? I wouldn't have chosen this, Carlisle, but it is done, and I have no intention of making _her_ pay for _your_ actions! If she's joining us, I'd have her be well. As well as she can be, under the circumstances."

"I'm sorry, Edward. Of course, I don't think you'd actually wish her harm. I'm just…God, I barely recognize myself." I sat back on table and rubbed my hands over my face. I felt lost and completely out of control. Esme was perhaps too damaged to survive, and I was purposefully provoking Edward? What on earth was wrong with me? A strange terror gripped my guts…a heady vertigo. I felt the potential… the apprehension and exhilaration of adding a new member to my life, of watching my venom rework a fading life into something else — I hoped something as vibrant and complex and beautiful as Edward. I'd felt the same when I watched him change, but then I'd had so little to lose. Now it was not so. Now the impossible miracle of transformation seemed even more unlikely. I could lose Esme _again_, for a third and permanent time, and in the attempt to save her, I could lose Edward. I wasn't sure I would survive the dual blow. I sank my face into my hands, leaning my elbows onto my knees… a position I'd seen Edward in just moments before. This could all go so well, or so very, very badly — the latter seemed rather more likely at the moment.

I felt Edward place a hand on my shoulder. We were silent for several minutes, as I accepted this subtle comfort, and finally I unburied my face and raised my hand to place it on his.

_Thank you, Edward._

He stood, squeezing my shoulder briefly. "Where do you want to put her?"

I turned to look up at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Which room do you want her to have? We should start preparing. In case this goes…well." He looked like he found great irony in his words.

"You're going to help me?"

He ran his hand over his face, and then put his hands on his hips, shrugging. "My choices are limited. I could leave, but we've already established that I like living with you… most of the time at least," he added ruefully. "I could punish you, but I think she'll likely do an admirable job of that on her own. And, frankly, you're going to need my help, Carlisle. Forgive me for saying it, but you're…you're…"

"A mess," I finished.

He didn't object to the characterization. "So I've decided to be helpful." He looked pleased with himself.

"That's… well, Edward, that's…"

"Uncharacteristically mature of me? Yes I know." A small smirk trembled on his lips, but it lasted only a moment. He shrugged again. "She's ours now. She may as well be comfortable."

_Ours._ He really wasn't leaving. I let out a shaky breath. "Do you really think she's going to punish me?"

He snorted. "Have you forgotten your first months with _me_? They weren't exactly the picture of domestic tranquility we have now…well, _had_," he said, motioning at Esme again. "But maybe not. Maybe she'll wake up well adjusted and grateful. In that case, I'll step in and punish you a bit. We don't want you making this a habit, after all."

I looked up at him, uncertain of how much his teasing was hiding real pain. I could normally read him well, but his reaction was not what I'd expected, once I'd given myself time to think on it.

"Don't worry about me, old man; you've got enough on your plate." I must have looked skeptical, because he continued, "Look, Carlisle, I love you more than I fear her, and I pity her more than I loathe what you did. I'm not thrilled with this change, but it's coming, and all I can do is make the best of the lot given to me… a wise man taught me that. So, I'll help. She'll need a space in the house. You did the same when I came: moved things to make room for me. But she's a woman…she'll need more privacy, I think."

I finally understood his point. "We'll give her my room," I said quickly. "It's the only one with a private bath. I'll move my things to the room at the end of the hall. Actually, maybe I should move downstairs, and we can each have a dedicated bath."

Esme's arm thrashed, and I looked back at her, alarmed, searching for any sign that the transition was progressing successfully. Her fingers were twitching, and her legs kicked minutely; I needed to set that femur before things went any further. She was already looking less ashen.

"I'll move your things down for you… you stay with her."

I let out another breath I hadn't realized I was holding. He was right; we needed to prepare for her, but I couldn't bring myself to leave her side. I was lucky he was so good at seeing my need, and so willing to take care of things.

_I'm very fortunate to have you with me, Edward._

He didn't object to that characterization, either. He offered a small smile and then turned to leave the room. I watched him shake his head minutely as he mounted the stairs. I still was unsure of what had convinced him, but I did feel that we were on the same team again, as we had been for a year and a half at least. It was a relief, and I treasured the fact that, for now, I had been spared the worst of the possible outcomes of my hasty decision.

For the next several hours I listened to Edward make trip after trip up and down the stairs, bringing my things down and walking them to the back room as I tended Esme. I set her bones and washed her face and neck so I could keep a better eye on the contusion on the back of her head. The swelling was decreasing, and the discoloration was fading, even as her entire complexion shifted from pallid gray to a pale champagne. Above me, I heard Edward moving furniture, cleaning I assumed. Esme's twitching became worse, and her scent slowly changed.

Finally, Edward came skipping down the stairs, almost in haste as he continued his industrious efforts. He went to his desk in the music room and pulled out his wallet and a book of checks, and then entered the library, nodding at me in greeting as he approached Esme on the sofa. He reached down to her collar and began prodding it, pulling it away from her neck, almost as though…

"Edward!" I hissed.

He straightened up and looked at me, startled and confused. "What?" Then his eyes widened as he saw what was in my mind. "I'm not…I'm not _undressing_ her, Carlisle! Women's clothing has little tags on the inside of the collar that show a size. I used to help my mother… the memory is vague, but there _are_ tags," he said again, defending himself. "I was going to go to the city, Minneapolis. She'll need more to wear than that." He pointed at her torn muddy dress with disdain. "She might be able to wear this dress for her first hunt, but after that I think she'll want something clean, and I doubt she'll want to borrow your clothes like I did. So I thought I'd go take care of that while you," he waved his hand, "watch her complexion change, the grass grow, paint dry…"

He was right. I knew he was right. "I'll pay for her clothes."

"Of course you will. We can settle up when your mind is able focus on something as mundane as finances… sometime in mid August, I imagine. I was just going to look for her size, but it's fine, I don't need to touch her. I've probably got a good enough look at her that I can sort out her size when I get there."

I was shocked to find I didn't like that idea either.

He rolled his eyes, laughing gently. "Honestly, Carlisle, you're going to have to…" He froze, and then abruptly turned Esme.

"Edward?"

He stood completely still for what seemed like minutes, but could only have been twenty seconds. Suddenly, his hands clutched the hair at his temples, and his eyes squeezed shut. His lips were moving as though he were whispering a prayer, or pleading. I was on my feet, grasping his shoulders and trying to get his attention, but when his eyes opened they were sightless, and he silently gaped.

"Edward!"

His eyes found mine, and he shook his head, almost sobbing now. "Carlisle, she wasn't on the train…"

I looked over my shoulder at Esme, and then back at Edward. "Of course she was. She came in with the other casualties…"

"No. Carlisle, she jumped! Threw herself from the cliff. She must have landed near the train wreck. She jumped. And now she's burning, and… oh God." He swayed, and I steadied him, realizing he could hear her mind now, and that he was experiencing all her pain. "She thinks she's in Hell for committing suicide. She thinks she'll burn forever. Her despair, it's overwhelming!"

I supported him as he slumped forward, and heard Esme begin to writhe in physical pain, even as Edward suffered her excruciating emotional pain. Though I wanted to ask him more — to try to understand what would have driven that beautiful, confident girl I'd met to throw herself away, quite literally — I couldn't bear to see him so tortured.

"Go, Edward!" I reached into my pocket and pushed my keys into his hand. "The car is still at the hospital. Take it; go to Minneapolis. The transformation will take at least two more days. You can't stay here and suffer her thoughts that long. Come back when it's over, or when you can bear it." I wiped his hair from his brow, urging him to look into my eyes. "Come home as soon as you can bear it," I whispered.

He nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin white line to keep himself from crying out. I pulled him into a fierce hug, felt him cling to me, and then he was gone.

_Be safe, Edward. I'm so sorry. Come home when it's over… come home…_

My thoughts were interrupted when Esme's eyes flew open and her wail pierced the air.

**AN: No music or outtakes this time. Just the chapter. The next one is underway, so I hope to not take so long with it.**

**So were you surprised by Edward's reaction? I thought he was going to storm off in one of his glorious tantrums, but our boy is growing up a bit, I guess.**

**Thanks, as ever, for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts.  
**


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: Many thanks to my beta Coleen561 for her speedy review, and to StormDragonfly, who preread several scenes as I wrote, and kept me on track.**

**SM owns all the vampires.**

Chapter 19

CPOV

Twice I watched the pearly winter sunlight move slowly across the library. It illuminated each piece of art on the east wall for about an hour before it moved on: two paintings of mine, and two of Edward's father's. It caressed the books and neat stacks of Victrola records; it patiently examined each small statue and figure on the bookcases. With the globe and chairs it formed strange shadows that fell across the carpet, morphing and bending as the day went on. Finally, the light reached its goal near the south side of the room, shuddered as it passed through wind-blown branches to reach us and finally faded, to be replaced by blue moonlight. And twice it lingered on Esme, wrapping around her, warming her until she seemed to glow. All I could think was that it would be beautiful to witness, if she weren't sobbing, screaming, and begging for mercy.

Not for death. I'd seen several transformations in Volterra, and in nearly all, the — victims? I hated to think of her that way, but I supposed it was true — nearly all had begged for death. But Edward's final words had been very illuminating. Esme did not beg for death, because she believed herself already dead. Already in Hell. Already burning for the sin of trying to spare herself the misery of her life. And I had thwarted her intentions…forced her to live with the pain she had sought to escape. I had wanted only to deliver her to a happier life, had wanted to save her, but instead, I was condemning her to live with what I _now_ knew she considered to be unbearable pain, not for a mortal forty or sixty or eighty years, but for an eternity.

I buried my face in my hands again, wondering how my good intentions had gone so awry. I still sat on the coffee table, before the sofa. I'd only moved to retrieve water from the kitchen to wash her as well as I could while preserving her modesty; she now had a clean face, neck, and arms, and legs. All her abrasions had long since healed, and her bones also seemed mended, judging from how effectively she could kick and fling her legs.

Yes, it appeared that she was going to make it, and while it was a relief, I now knew she would be even less likely to be happy with her lot than Edward had been.

_What the hell were you thinking, Carlisle? She's going to be miserable! _Edward had not even known she had thrown herself from a cliff when he stung me with those words. Now they were even more fitting. And I was well aware of how miserable one had to be to fly from a cliff. Even with perfect memory, I'd lost count of how many times I'd done it myself.

If I had known she had tried to take her life, would I have let her be? If she had not come in with the casualties of the train wreck, if I had not assumed she belonged among them, would I have let her die? _Thrown from the train._ It seemed ridiculous now. None of the others had been _thrown _from the train. She hadn't _been_ thrown; she had _thrown_ herself. If I had known, could I have left her to die?

I did not like to think that I would knowingly go against her wishes, but I honestly did not know. As Edward had pointed out rather effectively, I was not making my choices based on any rational thought. I had my reasons, but they did not hold up; I changed her because…I changed her. I rubbed my temples and willed myself to behave in something akin to a recognizable, rational manner. I hoped that, had I known she'd tried to take her life, I would have let her decide her own destiny… that _my_ choice would have been to respect _her_ choice. I hoped such knowledge would have mattered, but I feared it would not have. Not when I was honest with myself. Not when I reflected on all the times in the last decade that my thoughts had drifted to her: thoughts that I had, thankfully, still managed to hide from Edward. Thoughts that had not been altogether wholesome…

Her face from my memory, her expressive brown eyes lithely shifting from amusement to sympathy, merged with her face in my… fantasies? God, that was a terrible way to think of it… and finally blended again with the changing face before me, higher cheekbones, fuller lips, crimson eyes wide and staring, full of fear and pain. It was as though time were meaningless as I waited for her, watching all the renderings of her face merge and morph like a changing mosaic in my mind.

I needed forget everything I thought I knew about her. That young girl, and the invented version of her I'd created as I imagined her life over the years, had little to do with the real Esme who was about to enter my life. There was no place for my conjectures. To be fair to her, to effectively guide her through her first year, I would have to set aside any preconceived ideas about her. No matter how pleasant or promising they had been.

_It's the most selfish thing I've ever known you to do._ The implications of Edward's accusation were beyond what I really wanted to consider tonight. He had no idea how close to the mark he'd come.

I looked at her face and stroked the hair at her temple with the back of my fingers, trying to soothe her. She seemed as sightless as Edward had been. Her eyes were open, but whatever she was seeing, it wasn't this room, the fading sunlight, or me. Her vision offered her no comfort, but if I spoke, or touched her face, she sometimes quieted. Not this time. Her lovely features twisted and distorted in agony, making her appear as some frightful beauty out of Greek mythology or a Yeats poem.

All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born. (1)

She was going to be a terrible, glorious beauty. I could only hope that her anger at me wouldn't be terrible and glorious, too. Or more likely, that her terrible and glorious anger would be short lived. I too had felt despair enough to try to end my life. I had tried over and over. Yet now I felt blessed. My life…existence… it was not perfect, it was often wearying, but I was _so_ blessed. I could only pray that Esme, too, would find joy in this life… enough to erase all the despair. If I were lucky, her pain would fade as her memories did, and it would not prove the heavy burden she had tried to elude. But regardless, I vowed to do everything in my power to bring her joy, even if she awoke hating me for prolonging her suffering. It was my responsibility, and my promise.

I heard an engine coming up our road and felt some of my tension ease. It must be Edward returning at last. We had put enough obstacles on the road that humans would find it difficult to travel. I frowned as I thought of it. We'd need to put in more. Before, a visit from a human would have been a nuisance, and potentially dangerous for us, depending on what the person saw. But soon it would be catastrophic to have unannounced visitors. I listened more carefully. Yes, this was definitely our car. It needed tuning.

_She has not awakened, Edward. It might still be painful for you to be here. Stay away if you need to, but I confess I am grateful to know that you are back and safe. _

A few minutes later Edward entered carrying an amazing number of packages. Balanced on the top, wrapped in what looked like wet cloth, was a bouquet of flowers. They seemed at odds with his grim look of concentration. I left Esme's side to meet him in the foyer.

"Are you okay?" I asked gently.

He nodded. "It's better now. I'm more prepared; I'm watching our good friend _Herr_ Mozart. She's better, too."

I looked over my shoulder at Esme, writhing and whimpering in the library. "She seems much the same."

"Oh, she's still in pain, but her mind's expanded. The pain's not as overwhelming as it was before." He let out a long breath and gave me a shaky smile. "It's bearable, Carlisle."

I nodded. "What's all this?" I asked.

"Clothes, mostly." His brow furrowed. "I told you I was getting her clothes."

"How many clothes does one woman need?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Carlisle, have you ever lived with a woman?"

"Only in the castle in Volterra. They all wore the robes of the Guard."

"Well," he said, setting his packages down on the table in the foyer, "I've lived with one woman, so I guess I'm the expert. My mother had a dizzying array of clothing for different occasions. I got Esme dresses, sturdy skirts and blouses, shoes, boots, sweaters, riding pants…"

"Riding pants?"

"To hunt in. I told the saleswoman that my cousin was recently widowed and was coming to stay with us, and all her possessions were destroyed in a train wreck. I explained that we kept horses near the city, so I needed a bit of everything for her. She was very helpful. There's a whole package of unmentionables that I didn't even have to _look_ at…she just picked them all out, told me my cousin would need these things, and I paid for them all. I might just put that package in one of her drawers as is. I don't need to know what she's going to wear under her skirts…"

"Edward, I had no idea it would be so complicated. Thank you for taking care of this; I wouldn't have known where to begin."

"I know," he said with a smirk. He handed me the flowers and a box containing a vase. "Think you can take care of those while I take the packages up to her room?"

"What are these for?"

He chuckled. "Honestly, Carlisle, I have no idea, but Mother always had them in the house, so…" He shrugged and headed up the stairs with the packages as I stared after him.

I was so very, very in over my head.

I went to the kitchen to fetch water and then placed the vase of flowers on a small table in the library. They did not seem as out of place as I would have expected. She was going to need to see more of herself in this room eventually. Perhaps Edward and I could move some of our books to our respective rooms so she had space; it was a subtle thrill to realize that I had absolutely no idea what she would put in an empty bookshelf, given the opportunity to fill it.

I heard drawers opening and closing upstairs, as Edward put away his purchases for her; the specifics of those purchases were another mystery weighing oddly on my mind when I should be focused on more important things. Esme whimpered and thrashed with closed eyes as Edward came down the stairs and joined me.

"Looks like we'll need a new sofa," he observed.

"Yes, well you ruined a table of oak. Leather upholstery had little chance of surviving a transforming vampire. It didn't seem appropriate to put her on the floor, and this was the largest horizontal surface we had, save your Steinway. But if you had rather…"

Edward quickly put up his hands in surrender. "By all means, sacrifice the sofa. Esme can even pick out the replacement. I daresay we might want a longer one now. Or a chaise…"

"A chaise?"

He sighed. "Perhaps her tastes will be different than my mother's… did you hear that?"

I had. Her heart rate had increased. "It's almost over," I said as explanation.

"I don't remember that."

"It's hard to notice when you're in it, but the same thing happened to you, and the…"

"She can feel her fingers. They no longer burn," he interrupted.

I nodded, bracing myself for the revelation ahead. How would Esme awaken? Angry? Distrustful? Would she flee from the house as Edward had?

"I'll lock the door," he said quickly. "Perhaps we should, I don't know, back up. Give her some space. When I awoke, you were on the other side of the room and I still found you threatening for a moment… and I remembered you from the hospital. She won't know me and might not recall you after a decade."

I moved the coffee table away from the sofa, and looked around the room ruefully. "I should have moved more of our belongings out of here."

"It can all be replaced, Carlisle," he said as he rejoined me.

"The paintings?"

He winced. "Too late," he whispered.

I heard it too. Each beat of her heart was more labored, more rapid, until finally it heaved and stopped.

Silence weighed on us as we held our breath and listened to Esme's. One breath, two, three. And then her eyes opened.

All was still for a moment except her eyes darting, taking in the ceiling and the chandelier refracting the palest remnants of pink light entering from the westerly windows as the day closed and Esme's new life began. She tilted her head, apparently curious, and then tipped it back following the faint stream of sunlight to the window, viewing the velvet-framed opening upside-down.

Edward let out the faintest chuckle, and the atmosphere in the room changed immediately. Esme was up crouching in front of the sofa and snarling at Edward, her face both alarmed and startled.

Edward crouched defensively.

_Don't provoke her, Edward._ "Easy, Esme. You are in no danger here," I said gently, hands open in an acquiescent pose.

She turned to me, and her eyes grew wide as she slowly straightened. Her gaze flickered to Edward, but her attention was now focused on me. She shook her head slightly, as though in disbelief. And finally, cautiously, she whispered, "Dr. Cullen?"

I smiled as reassuringly as I could. "Hello, Esme. I'm sure this is a surprise…"

Her face lit up. "It _is_ you! I thought I'd never see you again. You left… My God, you look exactly as I remember you... _exactly…_but that would mean…" her brows furrowed and her crimson eyes showed almost as much sympathy as her brown eyes had shown me all those years ago. "Oh, you must be dead, too, and come to greet me. I was burning, but now… _now_… this must be Heaven!"

"No, Esme. Wisconsin…" But she wasn't listening.

"Did you find him too? Is my son here?"

"Your son?" I asked lamely as Edward's face began to contort.

"He was innocent…he must be here."

My heart clenched, and Edward started shaking his head.

"I thought I'd been damned, but…" she looked incredulous. "But I'm here with you, so I must have been forgiven. Where's my son?" She looked at us expectantly, no longer threatened by Edward as he stood beside me. I saw him pinch the bridge of his nose as he understood our situation.

"Esme," I whispered. My voice sounded weak to my own ear. I did not want to deliver this news. I tried to imagine myself in the hospital, where I'd told countless people that their loved ones had not survived, but I could not pretend disinterest. "I know this is not what you want to hear, and I'm very sorry to have to cause you distress. You are not dead. I found you before you died and…and changed you so you _wouldn't_ die. You are in my home… our home," I corrected, indicating Edward. "I'm sorry; I did not see your son."

Her face fell. "This is not Heaven?"

"No, Esme. We are not far from Ashland."

"I'm not dead?"

"No. I had to…change you in order to save you. You are not dead, but neither are you alive as you were. You are now like me."

"And my baby?"

"I'm sorry…"

Her face twisted, and all the joy and light that had emanated from it moments ago warped and darkened to rage as she collapsed to the floor, dry sobs wracking her body and echoing through the room.

We both watched her for several moments, not knowing what to do. A son. She'd had a baby son who had died. I should have recognized the signs: the fullness of her hips and breast belied a pregnancy, probably within the last six months. I'd been so focused on her injuries, that I hadn't noticed the condition of the rest of her body. Not from a medical standpoint, anyway...

Edward looked at me for a moment and placed a hand on my forearm, whether to comfort me or stop me from approaching her, I wasn't sure. Then he walked forward slowly, carefully, as though she were dangerous, or prey easily spooked. Both were likely true. She tensed and grew silent as he began to kneel before her, but he continued down until his eyes were level with hers. Her expression was filled with grief and fury, and she turned a terrible glare to me before Edward claimed her attention.

"He couldn't have saved Colin." Edward's whisper was so soft it barely disturbed the air in the room; I had to strain to hear it. "It only works on people who are still alive. Carlisle found you in the morgue, but still breathing. He had no idea about your son, or the cliff."

Her eyes widened; her expression grew shocked.

"Yes," Edward said, with slightly stronger voice. Esme's gaze flickered to me. "No, just me. I'm sorry, I can't help it… yes, of course…you have my word."

She sagged back against the sofa, the weight her situation a heavy burden. Edward's brow furrowed, but his voice remained soft. "I know it's frightening, Esme. I was in your position not very long ago. We will both help you…"

Edward's hand reached in my direction ever so slightly, signaling me. I followed his lead, approaching slowly, kneeling so that I did not loom over her. Her breathing was labored, and she seemed…cornered, threatened. "Yes," Edward continued softly, trying to reassure her. "A few years ago… nearly dead, like you." He looked at me. "No, longer: a very long time."

"Esme," I began. "I am now as I was when I first met you, and as I have been for roughly two hundred and eighty years." She appeared stunned, and I took a deep breath, bracing myself. "As I have been since _I_ was changed, centuries ago, into a vampire."

"No," she gasped, frozen. Her wide eyes stared with fear and grief. "You cannot be. You can't be evil. You _can't_ be a monster; you are the only one who _wasn't_." She edged away from me, but Edward held her firm, even as she tried to break his hold on her.

"He is no monster; do not accuse him so. He is the same, kind doctor, the same kind _man_ you remember; everything you recall about him is still true. _And_ he was and is a vampire. As am I. As are you."

"No!" She twisted out of his grip, backing along the sofa until she reached its end, cringing away from us. Her red eyes darted around the room, seeking escape. I rushed to her other side, so she was between me and Edward.

"Esme, please be calm. We are not monsters. Look around you; we live as civilized men." She did look around the library: books, paintings, maps, a burning fire, a chess board, stacks of sheet music and medical texts, comfortable chairs and foot stools… evidence of tranquil and intellectual lives. Lives dedicated to art and science and other higher pursuits. She seemed slightly relieved, until her gaze fell on us. The room reassured her, but Edward and I…

She buried her face in her hands, her caramel curls cascading in front of her, hiding her from us. She shook her head and rocked her body, moaning in her fear and agony. She was withdrawing. I couldn't bear to let her be alone in her pain.

"Esme, please don't despair. Edward and I will both help you learn this life without succumbing to its darker, baser side. I'm sorry, but changing you was the only way I could save you."

"Why did you?" she screamed leveling a fierce look at me and then melting again into her dry sobs. "Why does everything still hurt so much?" Her mournful words fell heavily though the air like rain, and I ached to ease her pain. For the moment, there was only one thing I could offer that might help in the short term.

Edward eased over to her again, and she looked up at him, hissing and glaring.

_We need to take her hunting, Edward._

He held up a finger to stop me.

_Whatever else she is going through, it is only made worse by the thirst. It will soon send her into a frenzy. We need to go now. We can take her to the northwest end of the prop…_

"Stop!" Edward finally cried, looking back and forth between Esme and me. "If the two of you insist on thinking at me instead of talking, please have the courtesy of taking turns! I don't know," he added, looking at Esme, "work out hand signals or something. You're giving me a headache."

Esme looked as stunned as I felt by his scolding.

_I'm sorry, Edward._

He nodded at me. "Carlisle's right, Esme. We need to take you hunting. The burn in your throat is only going to become worse. It's not as gruesome as you are imagining. We hunt animals. Carlisle will teach you, and your instincts will guide you…" Her eyes grew wide and fearful. "Yes, I'll help too. But we should go, before your thirst grows worse."

She took a deep, haggard breath and closed her eyes, anguish twisting her features as her hand went to her throat. I watched as she stroked it, watched as she made her painful decision. Slowly, she nodded at Edward, and then turned to look at me, the plea clear in her eyes through the anger and pain.

I extended my hand to her. "Come, Esme. It will help. We'll take you somewhere safe to hunt." She hesitated, scrutinizing me. When she slowly took my hand, I breathed easier than I had since she'd awakened. Edward's brow was still furrowed, though.

"Give me your other hand, Esme," Edward said as we rose. I looked over her head at him, and the eyes that met mine were troubled.

_Edward?_

He shook his head slightly, and looked toward the door.

We ran northwest from the house with Esme linked between us. We were moving her further away from any settlements. We finally came to a knoll at the top of a small ridge, where we usually began our hunts. I stopped and turned to face her, nodding to Edward as he let go of her hand and backed away a few steps. His face was still troubled as he listened to something: her mind, or mine, or the world around us — I couldn't be sure. I placed my hands on Esme's shoulders and waited for her to give me her complete attention. She flinched at this new touch, but her alarmed eyes met mine, and she kept herself from pulling away from me. I was shaken to my core by the pain I saw in them. Pain, anguish, fear…

"Don't worry; it's quite instinctual. Now, focus for a moment on what you smell."

She nodded and took a deep breath. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me, and after a moment, she took another breath, this time allowing her eyes to close, almost reluctantly. She turned her head slightly as she continued breathing deeply. I raised an eyebrow toward Edward, and he nodded, indicating that she was catching some scent.

"And what you hear," I continued. Esme tilted her head, turning to the north. I caught Edward's nod in my peripheral vision. "Now what do you _want_ to do?"

Her lids flew open, and crimson eyes viewed me skeptically for several moments. Then she turned to Edward, where he leaned against a tree with his arms folded across his chest. His expression was serious, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch as he watched her.

"Well, go on," he said, nodding to the north. "You've got the idea… try not to scare it off as you approach."

She looked at me again, swallowing hard. Her entire body was tense — poised for flight — but her face betrayed the battle in her heart and mind. She was on an edge…still fighting what she was, or not believing it. But if Edward said she had the right idea, it was time for her to try.

"Go on, Esme. We'll be right behind you." She gave me one last, fearful look, and was off. Edward and I pursued her from several yards behind. She was fast, but nothing like Edward had been. He snorted and grinned.

_What is she tracking? The deer?_

"A sleeping one, I think," he muttered. "Even a newborn should be able to take it down."

We heard her hiss in front of us.

_Be nice, Edward._

He gave me a look of mock innocence.

_I know. You've been incredibly helpful, actually. Thank you._

We followed Esme as she turned abruptly to the northeast.

_What's she doing?_

"No! Esme!" Edward sprinted out ahead of me as I registered the new scents. Within a moment he had tackled Esme to the ground. She writhed, kicking and snapping at him.

"What happened?" I asked as he got her turned so her back was against him and her arms were pinned at her side.

"New scents," he said curtly.

_I know, but are they human?_ There was something faint on the air that might be human, but there were a lot of scents, and it certainly wasn't overwhelming the others. Was I too used to the human scent to appreciate the risk that such a faint, distant aroma posed to a newborn?

"It's complicated. Sheep and wolves. And a hint of human. The wind is shifting. I don't want to risk it. I think… I think I should hold her, and you go get her something." She twisted out of his grip, and he pounced on her again as she let out a feral screech. This time he locked his arms around her, pinning her more effectively. "Carlisle! A deer! Soon would be good!"

_Are you sure you can handle her alone?_

"I'm sure she needs blood, and I'm sure that I have a better chance than you of predicting her attempts to flee. Go!"

He didn't need to tell me twice. I turned and raced through the woods, following our original heading toward the deer. I found it just as it was starting to rouse, and broke its neck. Another bolted up ten feet away, startled by the swift execution of its herd mate. I was on it, too, in a matter of seconds, and its neck was also snapped as the rest of the herd fled to the northeast. No doubt toward the jaws of the wolves.

The deer were large but thin, emaciated by the scarcity of winter forage. Even so, two were likely enough to satisfy Esme. I balanced one on each shoulder and ran back toward Edward.

I heard the snarls from a half-mile away. I'd been gone only a few minutes, but as I returned, I realized it had been a long time for Edward. Parallel rips marred his clothing. It was almost as shredded as Esme's dress, which had been damaged by her fall and transformation. They were lying on the ground and Edward was fighting to restrain her as she struggled.

"Esme!" I called, and her face whipped in my direction. I tossed the first doe down and Edward released her. She closed the distance between us in a flash, and I thought she might actually attack me before she dove for the neck of the animal and sliced through its artery with no instruction, gulping the cooling blood in thick, long swallows.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Edward slowly rise to his feet.

_Are you okay?_

He gave me a slight nod as he approached.

_I'm sorry that didn't go well. I'll buy you new clothes._

He shrugged and gave a flick of his hand, waving off my concern. He was finally beside me, hands on his hips, and we both watched Esme gorge herself. Her expression changed from ferocity to ecstasy, her eyes closing and blood slowly dripping from the corners of her mouth, staining her dress and hair. The woods were silent except for the sounds of her gulps for several minutes. Then, suddenly her back straightened and her eyes opened, confused and angry. She glared around the forest.

"It's dry," Edward offered softly.

"Oh!" I quickly threw down the second doe, and Esme pounced on it protectively, snarling at us as we backed away several steps. She bit into it, and her lids fell closed again, but she was drinking with less urgency this time, and she seemed to have more awareness of our presence.

_Is it going to be enough?_

Edward's mouth formed a thin line as he thought, or listened. His gaze flickered to mine and he gave me a hesitant nod. When I looked back at Esme she was eying us warily, and her expression was changing again. She removed her lips from the doe's neck and straightened up, staring at us. The blood on her lips matched her crimson eyes and she looked for a moment like a macabre version of a fairy tale character, beautiful and innocent, despite all the blood. She looked down again at the dead doe, and seemed startled to find its open wound. Her gaze met mine and her face twisted in grief.

"Dr. Cullen?" she sobbed.

I was beside her in an instant. "You're okay, Esme. This is normal, and you did well. Is your throat more tolerable?"

She looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. Edward knelt beside her, too, assessing her thoughts. "Let's get you home, Esme," he said quietly.

She glanced at him, and then back at me. "Home?"

I nodded. "We've set up a room for you. It's not much at the moment, but it's yours and you can make it want you want."

She stared at me for a moment. "I'm to live with you?" she asked, and I couldn't name all the emotions I saw pass across her face in that moment.

"With both of us, yes. Edward and I share a home, and now you have a place there as well."

She was absolutely still for a moment.

"You'll be safe there, Esme," Edward said softly.

She turned and glared at him.

"You'll be safe there," he repeated.

"You have my word," I added, and even I was surprised by the fierce nature of my voice. She turned and looked at me, surprised.

"Let's go," Edward said, starting to place a hand on Esme's elbow, but she twisted away from him.

"Don't touch me!" she hissed.

He raised his hands in surrender, backing away from her glare. "I'm sorry I had to restrain you, Esme. My first hunt, I almost killed a human. I didn't want you to have to live through that if I could protect you from it." Shock played on her features. "No, Carlisle stopped me in time. And I was grateful for him. I would never restrain you otherwise, but while you're training, it may become necessary again. We will protect you from making mistakes while you're learning control…Carlisle did the same for me." She looked at me and flinched away as she realized how close she had come to me in her attempt to get away from Edward. "No," Edward continued. "I wasn't angry. Neither of us is angry at you."

"Angry?" I asked incredulously. "Why would we possibly be angry with you, Esme?" She turned to me again, her look assessing and fierce. "Please," I continued, "let's go back to the house." I held my hand out to her again, to help her up. She stood, looking at it. She did not flinch away from me, but she didn't take my hand either.

"Which way?" she asked.

"I'll lead," Edward said, and started walking south. I smiled, realizing that in vampire-speak, he'd just offered her his trust. He turned his back to her, making himself vulnerable, and giving her an advantage — not much of one, considering he'd hear her thoughts if she decided to attack, but still, Esme's physical reaction was immediate. She let out a long breath and physically relaxed.

_Well done, Edward._

She gave me one last look, and then followed him cautiously. We made our way back to the house in silence, and when we entered, Edward went straight up the stairs and into my old room. It was clean and bright when he turned on the electric light. There was a dresser, a wardrobe and a plush chair that I recognized from the music room. I assumed he'd moved my leather one downstairs. There were a few vials on the dresser that I didn't recognize and a mirror on the wall that she was currently staring at, completely horrified.

"Your eyes will fade to gold after about six months of feeding on animals," I said quickly, for even _I_ could see what she was thinking in this moment. "There is a bathroom through that door and fresh clothes for you in the wardrobe and dresser. You are stronger in this body than you were in your last, so please be careful with the plumbing and furnishings until you get used to it. If there is anything you need that we haven't thought of, you need only ask and we'll see to it. I'm completely serious," I added when I saw her expression. "You need only ask, Esme."

"I'm strong?"

I was startled by her question. "Yes, much stronger than before."

"But Edward was able to…"

"We're all strong," Edward interrupted, looking at me meaningfully.

"That's right," I said cautiously, returning my gaze to Esme. "All vampires are stronger than all humans."

She nodded as she looked slowly around the room, lingering for a moment on the window seat. Her brow furrowed. "There's no bed."

"We don't sleep, Esme," Edward said.

She glared at him. "I want a bed!"

"But, Esme, we never sl…"

"What kind?" I interrupted, and they both stared at me. "What kind of bed do you want, Esme? How large? Do you want the frame of wood or metal? Four-poster? Sleigh? Canopy? Tell me, and if it exists in the state of Wisconsin, I will get it for you."

She watched me intently, and the room was utterly quiet. Even Edward seemed to be holding his breath.

"I don't know."

"You don't know what you want?"

She shook her head, frustration starting to overwhelm her. "I don't know what it's called."

"She can draw it," Edward offered. "You can draw it," he repeated to Esme. "You're a good artist. You can show him what you want."

Esme's brow furrowed again, but she nodded.

"Okay," I said. "You get cleaned up and settled, and when you are ready, I'll have paper and a pencil waiting for you downstairs." She was eying her reflection again, focused on the blood and tears adorning her dress. Her muscles were tensing again at the sight.

"We'll give you some privacy," Edward added, moving toward the door. "Unless you want help drawing the bath. Carlisle's right, getting used to the extra strength…"

"Just get out."

There was no arguing with her. We backed out of her room, and she stood still, watching our retreat. She was seething, and just below the surface a dangerous energy was building.

I should do something…try to comfort her; let her know that this will get better, that her new life will be so much better than her old one…

"Carlisle, close the door," Edward said quietly behind me.

Esme was staring at me, waiting. I gave her a small smile and nodded as I started closing the door. As soon as the latch clicked, I heard her collapse and let out a desperate cry. I looked at Edward, but he shook his head. Sobs and screams came from the other side of the door. Fabric was tearing, and then we heard the crash of glass breaking. A sharp shard of the mirror slid to my foot from under the door.

"Don't!" Edward whispered, clutching my arm as my hand moved to the knob.

I looked at him, all my anguish welling up.

"Don't. She needs this. It's all replaceable," he whispered.

_What have I done? What can I do for her? She's miserable!_

He shook head and placed his hand on the back of my neck, forcing me to look at him.

"Give her time, Carlisle," he whispered. There was another, smaller crash in her room, and a pitiable wail. He pulled me into an embrace as I recoiled from the sound. "Give her time."

With an arm over my shoulder, he led me downstairs, and away from the storm.

* * *

(1) 'Easter, 1916.' William Butler Yeats

**AN: I've received word that "Prelude" has been nominated for a Tomato Soup Award for best canon. Thank you to the lovely reader who nominated my story. When I find out more, I'll put the information on my profile.**

**I have another Esme outtake almost ready for you, this time from 1917. If you'd like it and you're caught up in the story, please just let me know.**

**I promise I'll have Esme-inspired music next chapter… the action hasn't lent itself to music for a chapter or two, but I do have some things picked out. I'm also contemplating putting together a web-based playlist of the music I've mentioned in the story, instead of (or in addition to?) the video links I have on my profile. Would this appeal to any of you? I hesitate because I can't find one that will allow me to organize it by chapter, but perhaps that's not important…**

**Thank you all for reading. I can't believe the number of thoughtful, insightful reviews that have come in the last several weeks. It's been a pleasure to respond to them. As always, if you want to see where I am with the next chapter, you can follow me on Twitter (ATONAU). Until next time…**


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

AN: Thanks to my lovely beta Coleen561, who suggested I add a scene and made the chapter much better, and all my WC gals, who preread portions and generally encouraged and offered support. The group is getting too large to name, but you know who you are, my inspiring lovelies.

SM owns the boys and the woman who's messing with them. Not me, the other one.

EPOV

What. A. Mess.

I led Carlisle down the stairs, his mind flinching at every crash emanating from Esme's room. He started for the library, but I needed to talk to him, and we needed as much privacy as possible. And, to be honest, on many levels I didn't recognize him right now; I needed him in a familiar environment… an environment that was untainted by her presence. Leading him into his study, closing the door…seeing him at his desk with his books and art… it was as much for my benefit as his.

He walked around the desk and sat in his leather chair, questions swirling through his mind. Leaning back, he looked to the ceiling; we could hear Esme upstairs, still smashing her meager belongings against the walls of her room and sobbing. Her mind was swirling with questions, too. I sat and rubbed my fingers along my brow, willing all these minds to settle. I was used to being the one who needed to be taken care of, who required the calming influence of a more organized mind. I was used to being the one hanging onto my sanity or patience or serenity by a mental thread. Suddenly, I found myself in a position to which I was utterly unaccustomed: I was the one holding things together. Both Esme and Carlisle were older than me, Carlisle by several centuries, and yet I was the one thinking clearly, seeing the situation, planning. I was the one taking care of everyone around me. The irony would have been amusing, if I weren't so worried about us all.

Carlisle. My best friend and only family... the man whose orderly mind had helped me so much when I was a newborn and struggling to maintain my sanity as I coped with this new existence... _Carlisle_ was a mess. I had known his mind as well as my own. Better actually…his was easier to navigate. It had been like an organized home with rooms for his different interests and well lit halls allowing access from one place to another, one time to another. But now the rooms were warped, coming together at odd angles. As he followed a thought from one place to the next, the rooms would inexplicably bend, floors becoming ceilings, and they would end up back at Esme. All doors in his mind lead to Esme.

Had he undergone a similar change when I'd joined him? I didn't think so. His mind and heart had become bigger, making room for me, but Esme seemed to be changing his very structure… the way his mind worked. I suspected that the workings of his heart were also undergoing permanent alteration. And he couldn't see it. He was too close, too deep in. He couldn't make any sense of the change. He literally didn't recognize himself, and it was making him insecure in a way I'd never witnessed. He was relying on me.

Esme's mind was a dark and twisting forest full of nightmarish visions that I didn't fully understand, yet. But I knew enough already to realize that when I _did_ understand them, I would know why she'd jumped. And I would sympathize. From what little I could see, she'd been lied to and betrayed by essentially every man of consequence in her life, including Carlisle. Though to be fair, he could have hardly told a sixteen-year-old patient at a hospital that he was a vampire. Esme would understand that eventually, but at the moment he was lumped in with the liars, despite the…more positive thoughts she'd had regarding him. And she'd sworn me to secrecy. I scrubbed my hand over my face, realizing how deeply I was entrenched in this mess already. There were things I was going to have to do during her training that were going to be unpleasant for her. I was going to have to restrain her, and that activated all sorts of unpleasant memories that she railed against. I would have to help her understand things about her new nature that she was going to find unpleasant. But I was _never_ going to betray her trust. I was going to be the one man in her life that did not lie to her, ever. And it was going to kill Carlisle to be left in the dark. Already his mind was going places it shouldn't.

"You can't do that," I whispered, addressing the most practical and least personal of his thoughts.

He looked at me, his thoughts finally settling, and raised an eyebrow.

"You can't quit the hospital."

He sighed. _She's going to need to be trained. I did the same for you._

"I know, but Carlisle, this isn't Chicago. You can't slip anonymously away. People know you; they know this house. If you stop going in, they'll come see what's wrong. That wouldn't be good."

He looked worried. "Do you…"

I interrupted, raising a hand and looking at the ceiling meaningfully. She wasn't listening now, but the less said, the better. Carlisle understood.

_Do you think you can train her yourself? Do you want…_

He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought, but I could see it: his worry that I wanted to be alone with her, that he would be somehow excluded and alone. "Of course not," I whispered, quickly. "But think about it, Carlisle. If we were to cut ourselves off from the town, we couldn't stay here. We'd need to just leave…someone _would_ come look for us, to try to help. To make sure we hadn't been eaten by the beast they think roams these woods, thanks to my interference with the poachers. Do you want to try to move her now? Do you want to move our things? Would we depart and leave the house furnished… just disappear into the wild and hope no one looked though our things too carefully? Go back to the farmhouse outside Chicago? All of those options seem more dangerous than just staying here and keeping up appearances."

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, thinking.

_But my shifts are so long. She can't go that long between feedings yet, and…_

"And both of us need to be here when she hunts, or something like what happened today could go very badly," I finished for him. "You're right, of course." I leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling. She wasn't throwing things anymore, but she wasn't happy. Her sobs still shook her. Bleak images flashed through her mind: a cruel face, a chilling walk in the black and rain, the feeling of blows falling against her body over and over…

"Perhaps you could tell them I've grown weak again," I suggested, shaking my head to clear it. "You could try to limit your hours, and ask for shorter, more frequent shifts. It's not like we can use the long blocks of time off to go see concerts in Chicago anymore. It would be better to have you here a little every day. Tell them something that makes it seem bad enough that you need to keep a closer eye on me, but not so bad that I need a nurse. I should be able to handle her eight hours at a time, if we take her hunting just before you go."

Carlisle weighed the proposal, turning it over in his mind.

_That could work, I suppose. Are you sure you want to be alone with her? She seems…so unruly... so wild in her grief… _

I shrugged, looking at him and trying to decide if he really didn't think I could handle her, or had some other motivation for asking. After a moment I realized he himself didn't know.

"You once told me that one of the things you admired most about her was that she really _felt_ what she was feeling," I whispered. "She didn't try to stifle her emotions; you could see her joy and wonder in everything she did."

He nodded.

I motioned to the ceiling. "This is just the flip side of that coin, Carlisle. She feels fury. So we'll experience it with her until she feels something else. It's just who she is, I think. She embraces her emotions, even if they send her from a cliff…"

His face looked shocked, and his thoughts reprimanded my coarseness, while agreeing with my conclusion. Still, his mind ran through all of the newborns he'd seen, and Esme's reaction stood out among them.

_I've never seen anything quite like it. You were nothing like that…_

"I had you," I whispered.

He looked affronted. _She has me, too…_

"No," I said, holding up a finger. The water started running upstairs. It sounded like she'd managed to start the bathwater without destroying the plumbing…so she had been listening to us that much, at least. Carlisle looked at me quizzically as I ran my fingers through my hair. She was more aware of our presence in the house, now that she was getting ready to bathe. In an even softer whisper, I said, "I had you here," and tapped my temple. "You've never fully appreciated how much I relied on being connected to your mind."

_I thought being connected to my mind annoyed you._

"It did. It still can. But it's also very helpful at times. Es..." I thought better of using her name, in case it drew her attention. "She can't use your thoughts to ground her the way I did." Not that his thoughts were particularly grounding at the moment. "She's lost in her own mind, and it's a much more… turbulent place than even mine was."

He gave the ceiling a look of compassion, and then faced me with alarm and sympathy. _I'm sorry you have to be mentally tied to us both now. I don't know the details of what she's been through, but I'm sure it's not pleasant to witness. _

I nodded, acknowledging the difficulty neither of us had the power to ease. And as if on cue, her mind asserted itself. She was fascinated by her skin. As Carlisle and I calmly discussed the logistics of having her in the house, I was simultaneously witnessing Esme's amazement as she peeled the tattered dress from her body and prepared to bathe. I tried in vain to block her thoughts, but she was completely mesmerized, running her hand along her bare arm, noticing that scars were missing, wondering if it bruised…and then the onslaught began. Image after image of her history of bruises: arms, legs, back, face, chest, abdomen, and lower… lower still. I flinched, but the visions were relentless. As she sank into the water, my mind was filled with staccato memories of his body's weight on hers, holding her down, squeezing too hard, pushing, gripping, forcing her open, forcing himself in…

_EDWARD!_

The splintered remains of the chair's arm crumbled out of my hand. My eyes searched and finally found his: familiar, golden, concerned. I tried to steady my haggard breathing as he registered my pain, wondered at its cause, and then realized that it was _her_ pain.

"I'm okay," I whispered, sitting up and trying to get some control over my own emotions. Her pain was _not_ mine. I could see it, but I didn't have to succumb to it. In fact, we all needed me not to. We all needed me to stay rational, emotionally distant…but that was easier said than done. "Sorry," I added, looking at the wood fragments in my hand.

He was crouching by my side in an instant, looking up into my face, his concern mounting for both Esme and me. _When have I ever cared about such things? _he asked, brushing the slivers from my palm and gripping my arm. He sighed deeply, feeling the ultimate responsibility for my pain, torn again by the familiar dichotomy: regret for the pain Esme's presence caused me, and the relief he felt for the opportunity to help her.

Faces and hospital rooms and darkness and pain kept cycling through Esme's mind. Occasionally Carlisle's face would flash through, or mine, almost like a question, and then the parade of pain would start again… It consisted mostly of images of _him_, but there were others too. Older men…a father, maybe. Pain and betrayal were associated with all of them.

"It's okay, old man," I whispered, focusing on Carlisle again. "I'm just going to have to get used to it"

_I'm no psychologist, but her emotional trauma is likely going to affect her progress as a newborn, and as her mentor… I'm going to need… well, I mean it would be helpful..._

"Carlisle, I can't. It's not my story to tell. She asked me to keep what I saw to myself."

He sighed._ I noticed that._ His face became grim as he pondered how blind he felt, as if he were trying to diagnose a disease without a powerful tool or test. But he recognized that I was in a difficult position as well. In truth, he was as worried for my mental health, being exposed to her pain, as he was concerned with hers. He wanted to make it easier on me, and if all he could do was not pry, he would do it. He wasn't pleased, but he understood.

"I need to be a gentleman about it. It's bad enough that I'm seeing parts of her story without her express permission or desire, but to share them with you…it wouldn't engender her trust in either of us."

_We'll have to work on gaining her trust gradually. _

Little did he know. Her mind was now racing between so many faces and images it was making me dizzy. Carlisle appeared commonly enough, associated with empty hospital rooms, a dead infant in her arms, and with the much clearer and brighter memory of him admitting to her that he'd been a vampire for as long as she'd known him. I appeared as I'd restrained her, and she'd struggled against me. And that memory was associated with other times she'd been restrained, held down, pried open. And then the blows would start again, and then the hospital rooms, and it would all begin again: an endless cycle of pain, suspicion, recovery, and pain. Then, abruptly, she got out of the tub, and I forced myself to look at Carlisle and concentrate on his thoughts.

He was watching my face again, trying to read the emotions that were no doubt playing across it. His mind was still bent back in on itself, flitting through dozens of thoughts: trying to imagine the events I was seeing, remembering her face in 1916, the way she looked on her hunt… and then his mind was drawn to the sound of the tub draining upstairs, her movements around the room, the opening of drawers…

"I need to play," I stammered, practically leaping from the broken chair and making for the music room.

Their thoughts were both so disjointed. I went to my shelves looking for something to play that would reflect all the chaos in their minds. I needed to rid myself of it. I needed catharsis. I scanned the boxes on the shelves, which were organized alphabetically. Looking at each letter, I knew the contents of each box: J.C. Bach, J.S. Bach, Bartok, Beethoven, Bertini, Brahms. Next box: Cervantes, Chopin, Clementi, Czerny. I scanned each letter. I was familiar with all the contents, though some I'd only played a few times…not often enough to truly know them. As I scanned my music, Carlisle's and Esme's minds were still pressing in on mine…it was like listening to several pieces of music at once…everything overlapping and discordant. Chaotic, or nearly so. Then I reached the "S" box, and I knew what I wanted. I'd never really enjoyed playing it before, but now I understood it perfectly. Now it made sense to me. I'd always thought it sounded industrial, but now the discordance took on new meaning.

I spread Scriabin's Etude in G Major out on the piano and dove in. It was very satisfying, moving between staccato and resonating notes, piano and forte crescendos. It was chaotic and furious and parts were practically violent. I could feel the tension I'd been holding rush out my fingers and into the piano strings, reverberating through the air. It was almost enough to block them out. My catharsis was almost enough to erase the world around me, as if the vibrating air could shield me from the assault of their thoughts, and my mind could be alone. And just when the passion was moving toward something approaching joy, despite the desperate nature of the music, there was a thud from above.

Jerking my fingers off the keys, I looked up and saw Carlisle's wide-eyed form suddenly appear at the doorway. Confusion and panic emanated from the upper floor.

"Esme," I whispered, dashing past Carlisle and up the stairs. I entered her room and scrambled over the glass and wood shards…evidence of the destruction she'd wrought on her room in her anguish. She was not raging with fury now. She was huddled in the corner, forehead on her knees, arms encircling her folded legs. I'd seen many of her memories from just this position. Why was she doing it now?

I approached her cautiously…she was so frightened. Of _me_. She was suddenly very frightened of me.

"Esme?" I asked as gently as I could, kneeling in front of her. Her mind was racing with times she'd been cornered, beaten. I had no idea what had triggered it. I made myself as small and non-threatening as possible, and Carlisle picked up on my movements and lowered himself to the floor as well, just a bit behind me. "Esme, what's wrong?"

She shook her head without looking up. _You're angry._

"No, I'm not," I countered softly. She looked up at me fiercely. _Don't lie to me!_

"I'm not. Why would you think I'm angry?" I reached to touch her arm, but she pulled away fearfully.

_The music is angry._

Oh. _Oh…_ I was an idiot. In trying to ease my own tension, I'd added to Esme's. Which in turn could only add to mine.

"I'm not angry with you, Esme. I'm…I'm sharing your thoughts, I'm seeing your memories, and you're right, I'm a bit angry, but not at you… _for you…_on your behalf. The music…that's just what I do. I play to release my emotions. You can ask Carlisle. Once, when I was a newborn, the poor man had to listen to Chopin's Revolution Etude all night as I worked though a serious amount of frustration. It's only about two and a half minutes long…I must have played it two hundred times."

"Two-hundred-twenty-seven," Carlisle supplied helpfully. He gave me an affectionate glance. "It's true, Esme, one of the joys of living with Edward is that you can always tell how he's feeling by the music he chooses to play. We share his joys and trials though his piano."

I smiled at Carlisle, but then turned back to Esme to find her looking back and forth between us with a furrowed brow and disbelieving thoughts. She wasn't used to seeing the sort of camaraderie we shared. She was relieved that we weren't angry, but she was confused by our easy conversation when I'd been exhibiting such passion and rage mere moments ago. It made her suspicious of us…as if our affection and comfort with one another were a trick to get her to lower her guard. She kept focusing on the ferocity of the music, waiting to see it manifest in my behavior. I sighed, realizing that I could no longer be as selfish as I'd been in the past.

"I find it helpful to play like that when I'm struggling with something," I said. "It's cathartic. Carlisle's never minded, but it's not fair to you. Reflecting those emotions back at you isn't right; it isn't adding to your peace." I reached out and touched her forearm gently, letting out a held breath when she actually allowed the touch. Her mind was letting go of the anticipation of violence, but she was guarded…so very guarded. "Let me play something else for you, alright? Something…less angry." I gave her arm a gentle squeeze and released her, backing away. "Stay with her, Carlisle…"

I moved downstairs, watching through Carlisle's mind as he sat against the wall, scooting closer to Esme, though not close enough to touch. She eyed him warily, and he was employing every bit of his bedside manner to calm her. Her mind was looking for warning signs; Carlisle's was trying to make sense of the half conversation he'd just heard. Playing the role of both doctor and sire, he was attempting to anticipate her needs. My mind was trying to conjure some appropriate music…something that would acknowledge her mental state, but soothe her fractured psyche. A possible solution hit me abruptly, and I walked over to the "C" box, pulling out some of the yellowing pages of my father's sheet music. When Mother was upset, he'd always played her Chopin. I could never do these particular pieces justice, but I was willing to try again, if it would help Esme.

Chopin's Etude No. 3 In E Major was called "Tristesse" for good reason. It was achingly beautiful in its melancholy…gently devastating. Carlisle's mind was startled, remembering our first winter in Chicago when I'd refused to ever play these songs again. His mind warmed as he listened, watching Esme's expression ease. I could feel her mind settle as she focused on the melody. Her fear was seeping into the background. Her sadness and anger would be with her for a long time; she was justified in those emotions. But her fear was based on assumptions about Carlisle and me that weren't true. I kept my playing quiet, minimizing the crescendos and lingering on the unresolved chords. I could sense Esme's emotions changing as the song progressed. She was _with_ us as she listened, sharing the melody and emotions of the piece. She opened herself up, just a fraction, and Carlisle watched on in amazement as tension left her shoulders and her breathing became more even. She even looked at him curiously, not with the open expression he remembered from her youth, but with much less suspicion than she'd been leveling at us. When the song was finished I moved onto the Raindrops Prelude. Carlisle was beaming with gratitude that I'd managed to calm her so quickly.

_Thank you, Edward. I know what it cost you to take out that particular piece of music. You are playing it beautifully._

Carlisle began speaking softly to Esme, encouraging her to try to focus on happier memories. He explained that the human memories would fade faster if she didn't go over them too often now. It was good advice, but Esme didn't have very many happy memories from the last several years, and she was rather obsessed with the unhappy ones…

Now that she was calmer, Esme was taking in the extent of the wreckage she had caused to her room, and was mortified by her _own_ penchant for violence. She offered Carlisle an apology for destroying so many of the things we'd purchased for her. It was a sincere apology, but she was also testing Carlisle's reaction, and she relaxed as he responded with his usual patience and kindness. Carlisle explained that she would suffer mood swings for awhile, and would have difficulty controlling her emotions, but that such behavior was to be expected of newborns. Both Carlisle and I had experienced it, and he promised we would be patient with her. She seemed disbelieving, but nodded almost absently as she refocused her attention on the Prelude. She startled as he rose, but when he offered to get the broom and help her clean the mess, she let out a breath and tried to force herself to calm. It was hard. She was skittish, easily frightened… vacillating between anger and indignation, sorrow, and a growing sense that she was safer than she'd first feared. That was good. If we could accomplish that much in the first day, there was hope that this wouldn't be an utter disaster that I would have to somehow support Carlisle through.

As they worked together quietly to clear the debris from Esme's room, I began playing some of Carlisle's preferred composers: Bach, Mozart…nothing too cheerful or fast, but calm, familiar music. He thanked me mentally, and then was distracted as Esme startled at the sound of the glass being brushed into the dustbin. She was so jumpy. I thought back to my first days. I'd been less jumpy, more angry. No, actually, she was more angry, too. She was more everything.

"You should give her some paper and pencils so she can show you the bed she wants, Carlisle," I said softly as I continued playing. I heard them come downstairs, Carlisle in the lead, exposing his back to her. He led her into the library, to a small writing table, and gave her paper and a pencil. I was just finishing up the Mozart when I heard a snap. Carlisle reassured her and offered her another pencil. A single line appeared on the paper before I heard another snap, followed by a soft growl. We were going to run out of pencils. I chuckled softly as I stood and pushed in the piano bench. Her growl grew louder.

_Edward… _Carlisle warned, picking up another pencil and sharpening it with a blade. He was right. Of course, he was right…but really, how could I help it?

Another two snaps found me in the entrance of the library, leaning against the doorjamb. She turned to me, eyes narrowing as I tried to hide my smirk. She turned back to Carlisle, accepting another pencil, and very gingerly lowered it to the paper. She got three more lines drawn before it snapped, too.

"Don't laugh at me!" she screamed, just as my chortle escaped.

"I'm not! I'm not...well, I am," I admitted as she glared and growled her ire. "But only because the same thing happened to me." I raised my hands in supplication, willing her not to attack me, completely unable to hide my amusement.

"You had to draw a picture for Dr. Cullen on your first day, and broke a dozen pencils?" she snarled.

Esme had a sense of humor? My grin broadened. "Call him Carlisle; he's your sire, not your doctor. And no, _I_ broke fourteen records trying to get one on the gramophone. I shattered all my favorites, and was forced to listen to Schubert… it was very frustrating. And you've only broken five pencils, so no complaining."

Carlisle's eyes went wide as he mentally chastised me. He turned to Esme, smiling gently.

"Perhaps we should try again later, after a few hunts. Or…or one of us could hold it for you, and you could move our hand, which would be much less fragile…"

She gave him a hard look and took the last pencil from his hand, turning toward the table. She was on the edge. She was amused by my story, but _so_ frustrated…she could barely contain her aggravation. She slowly lowered the lead to the page, drew the outline of a four-poster bed, and then more lines, somewhat wavy lines…

"You want a curtained bed?" Carlisle asked, watching her draw, his mind going back more than a century to the last time he'd seen one.

She sighed and nodded, pleased that she'd been able to communicate it to him.

"There was an illustration in one of my books when I was a girl. I always liked it."

"Okay, I'll see what I can do. What's this?" he asked, pointing to an embellishment. She lowered the lead again to finish the drawing, and it snapped. I let out the absolute _faintest_ of chuckles, and then it was Esme who snapped.

I offered no resistance when she pinned me to the floor in the foyer. I was still laughing. I knew her mind; I saw the fury, but it was tempered, and I didn't believe she would actually hurt me. She growled mere inches from my face, which effectively silenced me.

Carlisle was shaking his head.

_You had that coming…_

"I did," I acknowledged.

"I think perhaps it's time for another hunt. How does your throat feel, Esme?"

She pushed off of me and stood, her whole body tense. Sighing, she admitted, "It burns." She focused on Carlisle, too annoyed with me to include me in her conversation. "Would you show me again?"

"Of course."

I got up and went to the door. "I'll make sure the area's clear." I was out the door before Esme could open her mouth, but I heard her mental retort as I raced away. I heard them arrange preparations as I turned north, checking the forest boundary where the scent of humans had come from during the last hunt. Then suddenly, my mind was quiet; I was out of range of the house. It was almost as if two warring radios had been unexpectedly turned off. The constant cacophony of other's thoughts was no longer pressing against my mind, and I almost choked on my relief. I'd grown used to the darkness and weight of Esme's thoughts; having them suddenly removed was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. The world around me seemed to shimmer and brighten. I felt light, like I could actually run faster, as if her thoughts had weighed me down physically rather than emotionally. The silence pulled me forward through the woods, and my unburdened mind noticed every detail about this beautiful afternoon. Pearly winter light illuminated droplets that adorned the bare tree limbs like crystal beads. And it was quiet…so quiet.

I ran to the edge of our property, elated by the silence. I savored it as I searched for indications of humans. After a few minutes I found a repaired fence, and no sign of the flock or farmer…they must have decided to move the sheep to their eastern fields today, but the repaired fence helped explain why we'd come across their scent last night. That was good. I circled to the west and then south, going all the way out to the main highway. And it occurred to me: I could just keep going. I could run to Chicago and stay at the farmhouse. I'd have shelter and a piano and I'd have all that jazz at my doorstep. I could write to Carlisle and explain how hard it was to share my mind with _both_ of them. I would never forget the visions I'd already seen in Esme's mind, but I'd be spared any more…

But almost as soon as the thought entered my mind, I rejected it. Carlisle would understand. He would wish me well, and when I came back, he would forgive me. But he would be devastated. And it would be harder for him to help Esme without me available to see what she needed, and how to help. I couldn't do that to him…or to me; I knew I'd miss his mind as much as he'd miss my presence.

And to be honest, I couldn't do that to Esme either. I wanted her to be happy…at least not be miserable. She was mortified that I knew her secrets, but she was also relieved. Relieved that someone knew…that she didn't have to talk about it, but that someone knew, had seen her Hell, and had understood her pain and her wrath. And I did. I wanted to help her past it. She was so strong. She'd lived through that, and somehow found the courage to leave her abuser. She didn't even realize how strong she was; she was focused on how broken and lost she felt. But if we could get her past that, I sensed that the girl from Carlisle's memory could find her voice again. It was worth staying for that. As hard as it was, helping Esme find some joy and staying with Carlisle were worth it.

I finished my circuit and their voices entered my mind again as I approached the house. Carlisle was instructing, and Esme was nervous. She was still vaguely revolted by the thought of drinking blood…by the fact that she had already done it once… but the burn in her throat was overriding such considerations. She stood before him in her riding pants and blouse, bouncing on her toes, ready to hunt…wanting to get on with it, coat her throat, ease her pain.

"All's clear," I called, just as Carlisle was becoming aware of my scent on the air.

He turned toward me as I cleared the corner of the house, and his expression brightened as he saw my face.

_Edward?_

I raised my eyebrow in response.

_Is everything okay? You look…different…_

I gave him a small nod and smiled.

"If Esme's ready, I'd recommend she head northwest. There were some interesting aromas in that direction," I said.

Her eyes widened. "How interesting?" she asked fearfully.

"Not human, and not deer." I paused, realizing she was worried about facing something other than a deer. "You can handle it, Esme. You're strong. You can down anything out there. As Carlisle once told me, you don't have to fear your prey."

She nodded at me, and looked to Carlisle, still wanting his permission.

Sadness crossed his face momentarily, but then he smiled. "Just remember what I taught you," he reassured.

She closed her eyes, sniffing the air, and then she disappeared into the brush. Carlisle watched her vanish, vaguely mortified and intrigued that she was wearing a pair of form-fitting britches as she ran away from us.

I looked away hoping he wouldn't see my smile.

_Edward? _ He was still wondering at the difference he'd seen in me.

"I was just enjoying the clear air, old man."

"The silence, you mean…" he countered, as we turned together to run after Esme.

I nodded in acknowledgement, and he sighed, truly worried.

"I'm fine. I might need to take breaks now and again…" I said leaping over a log.

_It's rather intense, I imagine._

He had no idea. But he was trying. I nodded.

"It has its moments."

He actually laughed. "Are you picking up the gift of understatement from me, Edward?"

It was good to hear him laugh; he'd been so worried for so many days. He now had just the faintest shimmer of hope around the edges of his psyche, but it was tainted with fear. I slowly came to a stop, facing him as he drew up beside me.

"It's hard, but I'm not leaving. If I need a break, I'll tell you, but I'm not leaving. Truly."

He let out a breath, and put his hand on the back of my neck, almost pulling me into an embrace. I relished the familiar gesture. So much had changed in the last few days, but we were still a team, facing things together.

"I'm very grateful," he said quietly. "I honestly don't know how I would be able to do this without your support. Not just your gift, though that's handy…"

"I know Carlisle. She's…" We both turned to the north as we heard a growl.

"Let's go find her," he said, heading north.

I followed. "She's fine," I said as I reviewed her thoughts. "She's making a mess, but she's fine. She's good at following her instincts. She'll be okay, Carlisle. She's strong."

And he clung to my words as we ran: fostered the hope, savored the joy he felt in running by my side, toward Esme after her first successful hunt. And there was something inspiring about seeing him this way… on the verge of something elusive and unfamiliar, filled with renewed purpose. Changing me, and then Esme…he was shaping his destiny in a way he'd avoided all his existence. Rather than drifting, being carried by the river of time, he'd dropped a large obstacle in the center of the channel, forcing the stream to change course. We were all in the rapids now, and he was thrilled and exhilarated and a bit frightened by his own audacity. And he was praying for deep, calm waters downstream.

AN:

Here's the new music, which I'll add to my profile

:

Scriabin Etude opus 65 no 3

http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=pPvfq5H8PgQ

Chopin's Etude No. 3 In e Major, Op. 10, No. 3 "Tristesse"

http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=ikBD3DcSGFM&feature=related

Chopin's "Raindrop" Prelude in D flat Major, Op.28 No.15

http : / / www . youtube . com / watch?v=J_6APTb3RNQ&feature=related

The lovely nixhaw has created a Web playlist for Prelude in C at

http : / / grooveshark . com / # / playlist / Prelude+In+C+By+Atonau+ / 60866524

It makes it easy to listen to the songs as you read, should you wish.

When writing the description of Carlisle's mind, I was envisioning Escher's Relativity (http : / / en . wikipedia . org / wiki / Relativity_%28M._C._Escher%29). Just giving props where they are due.

As usual, please delete the spaces in all of the addresses above.

I am preparing an outtake for this chapter, AND I am relenting and preparing to post a series of Esme chapters in their own story, most of which will correspond to outtakes to Prelude chapters, and will illustrate some element of her backstory that is referenced in Prelude. The first chapter is half written, and takes place in 1904. The next several after that will be spruced up versions of the outtakes, so they may look familiar.

Please feel welcome to follow me on twitter (ATONAU) for updates on where I am with the writing, etc. Please remember that I can't send you outtakes unless you receive PMs. As always, thank you so much for reading, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on Esme and how her presence is messing with the boys…


	21. Chapter 21

_AN: Thank you, my dear readers, for your patience and tenacity. I wish I could update more often, but life is life, and this seems to be my new pattern. I'm always so grateful that you are still there and still reading. _

_I've added a story of Esme's Outtakes, called 'Intermezzo in E Minor'. It will have all the outtakes I've sent to reviewers, plus many additional chapters, but will still really only make sense as a companion to 'Prelude' and not a stand-alone story. I hope you'll take a look at it._

_Thanks to my wonderful beta Coleen561, and all my writing buddies, especially StormDragonfly, who helped me work through the structure of this chapter._

_SM still owns the boys and Esme._

Chapter 21

CPOV

"Nurse, more suction. I need that area clear." Even with my superior vision, I couldn't see the rupture clearly under all this blood.

"I'm trying, Doctor." She moved the tubes deeper, and the blood began to disappear.

There had to be another cut; that was the only way to explain the amount of blood seeping into the body cavity. The bone had punctured the right lung, and there was clear laceration of the fourth posterior intercostal artery, but I had it nearly sealed, and there was still far too much blood. I looked up at the bottle of saline that was being injected into the patient. He was losing fluids almost as quickly as he was taking them in. Part of me wished I could send Nurse Brooke away and work at full speed; I was beginning to think that was the only way Mr. Brown would be saved. As I mulled over my options, the far door opened, and a man in a clean surgical robe, mask, and freshly scrubbed hands walked in.

"Dr. Cullen, sorry I'm late."

I looked up from the open abdomen before me. "Dr. Evans! You are a welcome sight… how is your patient?"

"Stable, finally. How is yours?" he asked looking over my shoulder.

"Not stable. I have this rupture nearly closed, but there seems to be at least one other. I need to be in too many places at once."

"Show me where you need me. I've just rescrubbed."

"Try the sixth posterior intercostal. I think the other tear must be on that artery or the seventh. Both of those associated ribs were cracked, though not as badly as this one."

We worked in companionable if intense silence, each racing against time and the flow of blood. The tide was turning, and it seemed more and more likely that we'd stem the bleeding before we lost the patient. We were both starting to breathe a little easier, when Dr. Evans asked the nurse to go get one more bottle of saline solution as we began to close.

I didn't envy Mr. Brown. He was going to be extremely sore for a number of weeks, and who knew when he'd be able to ride a horse again. The one that had thrown him was now lame and being put down. Dr. Evans helped line up the edges of the opening we'd used to access the body cavity, and I began sewing the various layers closed.

"Carlisle?"

I looked up from my sutures, surprised to see a warm, if hesitant, smile on Dr. Evans face.

"It's good to have you back."

I smiled and began sewing again. "Thank you, Michael. It's good to be back." It was true; it felt good to be back at the hospital, using my skills. The challenges I faced here had solutions: diagnose, treat, perform surgery, save a patient or don't save a patient. It was a familiar pattern. Comforting, in its way. So much simpler than the challenges at home…

"How's Edward? We'd heard he's relapsed."

I paused, trying to decide how much to tell. "He's…well, he's been better. Medically, he'll be okay, I think. But his…condition…makes him moody, easily frustrated. I've requested shorter shifts so I don't have to leave him for long periods." Of course I was actually talking about Esme. I'd learned years ago to keep my lies as close to the truth as possible. Edward was a rock, but Esme was still wild and unpredictable…a challenge seemingly without solutions. It was a relief to have a few hours away, even as I harbored an ache, missing them both terribly. But things at home had grown so complicated…

Michael nodded. "I know; I'm actually one of the doctors who volunteered to move my shifts around to help accommodate your request."

"Oh, I didn't realize…"

He waved off my concerns. "I was happy to do it. We're a small community, and family is important." He paused for a moment, as if debating what he wanted to say next. "How are you holding up?"

I looked up again, taken aback by the sincerity in his face. I'd always liked Michael, but we'd never had a conversation like this. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I began stitching again.

"I'm fine." I considered leaving it at that, but there was something disarming about the undemanding way he was asking. "Now that my surgeries are almost done, I suppose I'm getting anxious to see how things are at home. But it's been good for me to be here. There's something comforting about the rhythm of the hospital."

He chuckled. "I know what you mean," he said quietly. But the pause that followed felt awkward and pregnant.

I looked up at him again, trying to understand the shadow that darkened his expression. What was he trying to ask me? Or tell me?

"Have things been okay here while I was away?" I finally asked. I tied a knot and checked several stitches before continuing.

He tilted his head slightly. "There have been… rumors." A chill settled deep in my core. Rumors were never good. Had Esme been missed? Had the coincidence of her disappearance and my own absence been noticed? I hadn't noticed any odd behavior in my colleagues today, but I'd been quite busy…

"Dr. Jones intends to make some more changes. Procedural changes, for the most part, but the sort of thing that can be irksome to doctors." He paused, seeming to weigh his next words. "I know he came down a bit hard on you during your last shift. He told you to leave for three days, and you were gone for three weeks. Some people…well, they think that perhaps you are looking for other work…"

"No," I reassured him quickly, and I saw the relief in his expression. "It was just a coincidence, Michael. It was good, actually, that I was forced to stay home; I was able to notice the change in Edward and deal with it before it became too serious. If things at home worsen, I _might_ need to move us, but I have no plans of doing that in the near future, and certainly not because of anything that happened here."

He let out a long breath. "I'm glad to hear it. You're a valued member of this hospital Carlisle, even if, well, even if the administration comes down a bit hard on all of us at times. Look, why don't you let me finish closing? Your shift is almost up, and I'm sure Edward's anxious to have you back from your first shift in nearly a month."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely! Go. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you…" I handed him the taut thread, and he slipped into my position, continuing the row of small stitches. The nurse entered the room with the saline, and the two of them talked as I made my way to the exit, turning to give him a final wave goodbye before slipping through the door.

I stripped off my surgical gown, dumped it into a laundry bin, and made my way to the men's lavatory, where I inspected myself carefully for any blood on my clothing. Satisfied, I washed my hands and face, grabbed my coat, and signed out.

I couldn't deny that it had been a welcome relief to have a few hours to myself. Esme's aggression and emotions I could handle. Her fury was glorious, her mood swings, dizzying. She was so in touch with her own emotions, succumbing to every feeling, every fear, every triumph, every sorrow…so unlike me. And, in the face of her exquisite emotions, I was forced to hide mine even more than usual.

My traitorous body, for one, was reacting to her in ways that _had_ to remain hidden. Fortunately, the few times I'd been close enough for her to feel my reaction to her, she had been, I hoped, far too crazed to notice. And then there were my traitorous emotions and wayward thoughts…full of longing and envy… which I struggled to hide from Edward, but I suspected he was all too aware of them.

Just a few days ago, she had picked up a dangerous scent while hunting, and I'd been closer to her than Edward, so I was the one who'd pinned her to the ground to keep her instincts from leading to her to tragedy. And for a second, she'd been under me, warm and soft and smelling of lilacs and something more complex. She'd looked up at me through the blood haze, surprised to find herself on her back and me on top of her. And in that moment, my body had begun to react to her proximity as I looked into her deep red eyes, her breath brushing my cheek, and her chest pressing against mine. It was subtle, accidental, but it caused my breath to hitch and my mind to fly to wondrous possibilities. In that second, my thoughts had soared.

And then they'd crashed. In the next second, my arms had closed over hers, pinning her, securing her against me and the ground, securing her against the lure of the crimson air. Her reaction had been explosive. We'd done it before; Edward had pinned her twice on previous hunts, and while she didn't like it, her response to him was tepid compared to her reaction to being pinned by me. She had become intensely violent, and then hysterical, screaming and sobbing. Edward had pulled me off of her, repeating, "It can't be you, Carlisle. It can't be you." Uncomprehending, I'd stood by, watching him reassure her, calm her, whisper to her that it was 'just Carlisle', and that she was safe. I'd stood in silence, all evidence of my awakening having slipped quickly from my body, my mind recoiling as I'd watched Edward soothe her.

It had been a terrible moment. The jealousy that had flared in me could not be hidden from Edward, and he'd given me an exasperated look over his shoulder as he'd comforted her. Within a few minutes, she'd recovered and the scent had passed. She'd looked at me sheepishly, squeezed my hand apologetically as she walked past me, and then she'd ran off through the trees to continue her hunt. Edward had put his hand on my shoulder as he went to follower her, but I'd felt none of the usual comfort from the gesture.

It occurred to me that they were often like that. I would watch them in the library, and I felt as though I was eavesdropping on private moments. Esme rarely spoke at these times, she was just agitated, and Edward would move to comfort her before I was even aware that there was a problem. It reminded me of a paper I'd read several years ago on "twin speak". Edward and Esme weren't speaking a secret language — Esme usually wasn't speaking at all — but I could definitely commiserate with the parents in that study. I shared their sense of being on the outside, looking in: the feeling that I would never be as close to either one of them as they were to each other. Esme didn't speak of her pain, but Edward knew it and knew how to respond to it in a way that calmed her. I should be grateful to him for easing her pain, and I was, truly I was. But I was also jealous. _I_ wanted to make her happy, remove her pain. I still had only the vaguest idea of what she had been through, what she was dealing with; Edward was intimately aware of it; the confidence was forced on both of them, but now they seemed at ease with it. There were no reasons for me to impose myself or interfere that didn't reek of selfishness. I had no right to intrude on their budding relationship. And it was nothing I could ponder in his presence. He was already dealing with so much; I couldn't lay my petty envy at his feet as well. Yes, the hours in the hospital were going to prove a happy relief for all of us.

I stopped at the post office, picking up a letter from the furniture store in Minneapolis. It contained my receipt and requested directions for delivery. I'd wanted to get the bed immediately…as soon as I'd found it. But Edward had forbidden it, claiming that Esme would just ruin it as she had so many other pieces of furniture. I'd argued that I'd buy her a bed every week for as long as it took for her to be stable, but he'd shook his head, his expression showing that he was using every bit of his patience, and he'd asked me how it would look in town if we had the same piece of furniture arrive every week. He was right; of course he was right. I was just so frustrated with my own impotence.

My final errand was the flower shop; they had my standing order waiting. Every four days, they pulled a mix of cuttings from the hot house for me. Mrs. Foster smiled when I entered; she wrapped the bouquet in paper and assured me that soon there would be tulips and daffodils. If she was curious about what two men needed with a constant supply of flowers, she never showed it. But Edward's caution was wearing off on me... or rather my own usual caution was finally breaking through the haze of confusion that had engulfed my mind since Esme re-appeared in my life. I'd have to start varying where I got the flowers.

I sighed as I headed west out of town, realizing that soon I'd have to hide all these thoughts again. I refused to compound either Esme's or Edward's troubles with my own concerns. They were both dealing with enough already. They needed my support, even if that support was mostly silent. They needed my care and my strength. I turned onto our road and got out to open the gate; we'd taken to keeping it locked all the time now. As I drove north, I forced my thoughts away from attraction and jealousy. I focused on what I'd done at the hospital, how I'd been received after being gone several weeks, and how much I'd missed them, Edward and Esme. As I approached the house, I could hear the strains of _Un Bel Di Vedremo_, and it made me smile. Esme had been wearing out the gramophone with our opera collection. The music was well suited to her passionate disposition.

I parked the car, gathered my things, and had almost made it to the porch steps when Esme came barreling out the door, Edward calling after her. I barely had a chance to notice the bloodlust in her eyes before she knocked me backward, toppling us both over and landing on top of me, pinning me on the ground and sniffing wildly.

"Don't bite him!" I heard Edward command just as Esme's face approached my neck where I'd been marked twice before. She froze, and for one very long moment we were all suspended as she made her decision. Her eyes softened, but her mouth kept moving down until, in a flash, Edward had pulled her off of me, pinning her arms behind her back. She snapped at him, pulling away, straining toward me with a fierce glow in her eyes. And as she continued to writhe and hiss, Edward maintained his grip on her arms and calmly said, "Welcome home, Carlisle. How was your first day back at the hospital?"

I sat up, noting the somewhat crushed bouquet on the frozen detritus of the forest floor to my right. Watching as his face remained completely impassive, and Esme's twisted in fury and thirst, I answered, "It was fine, Edward." _How are things here?_

"Did you perform many surgeries?"

"Three; why?"

"Your clothes reek of blood."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" I looked down as if perhaps I'd be able to _see_ the odor on my white shirt. "I checked my clothes carefully before I left; I didn't see any blood on them."

"I don't see any either, but the smell has completely permeated the cloth. Esme's noticed too, I think," he added wryly, as she continued to struggle in his arms.

"I'll go change…and bathe," I added, getting up. Looking into Esme's feral face, I regretted the strain I'd put her through with my thoughtlessness. "I'm so sorry, Esme." I glanced back at Edward. "Perhaps I should use the back door, so I can go straight into my rooms and not pollute the common areas."

"That's probably best," Edward agreed.

I went around the house and entered near the kitchen, going straight to my bathroom. I put my clothes in the sink to soak, and drew a bath for myself, scrubbing diligently. After washing myself and my clothes, I changed into a clean shirt and pants. The crushed and dirty flowers lay on the edge of the sink, and I debated just throwing them away and getting more tomorrow, but I could smell the decay in the existing arrangement in the library. It was time for new ones. I rinsed them as best I could, and went to the front of the house to find Edward and Esme.

"He's not," I heard Edward whisper. "He's just really desensitized to it. The scent barely registers in his mind… Esme, don't be ridiculous; the idea of Carlisle being disappointed in you is preposterous. Well, no, but he wasn't working in the hospital when I was your age. I had to deal with much subtler scents from his visits to the post office, but nothing like this."

I stopped in the hall, sorry to be eavesdropping, and then realized that Edward likely knew I could hear and wanted me to know Esme's concerns.

_Edward? Do you need a few more minutes with her?_

"Carlisle, you smell much better. We're in the library," he said in a normal voice, inviting me to join them.

I took a deep breath and turned the corner. The room had changed a bit since Esme joined us. The old sofa had been destroyed during her transformation, and a slightly larger one had been purchased and moved closer to the fireplace, near the existing pair of chairs. The table by the window now held a vase that was continuously full of flowers. There were books on the table that Edward had tried to interest Esme in: books by Jane Austen, Edith Wharton, Somerset Maugham, and others. The only one that had her scent infused in it was _The Secret Garden_ by Francis Hodgson Burnett…about a young girl coming to live in a strange home full of sick and secretive people…

Esme was sitting on the sofa with her hands in her lap, and Edward was just rising as I walked in; he'd probably been kneeling before her as he'd tried to reassure her. He nodded at me and moved toward the hearth, where the fire was sputtering. He set about reviving it as I moved to stand in front of Esme, sad to see her fidgeting and nervous.

"Esme, I'm very sorry for causing you discomfort…again. From now on I'll wash and change before coming home. I can even have those clothes laundered in town. There's no reason you should have to be exposed to the scent of human blood yet… I just wasn't thinking."

She nodded, but wouldn't raise her face, so I sank to the floor until she couldn't help but see me.

"I should have thought of it, Esme. I'm very sorry."

Her head snapped up, and her expression was pained. "I should be apologizing, Car…Dr. Cullen. I could see it was you, but I just… I couldn't stop myself. I'm _so_ sorry."

I started to put my hand over hers where it sat on her knee, but pulled back clumsily. "You were following your instincts, Esme, which is a completely reasonable response. I wouldn't expect you to be able to control your reactions at this point. Edward attacked me when he was _much_ older than you are now, when I'd brought home a blood-soaked cloth."

She covered her mouth and nose, as if trying to fend off even the thought of the offending scent.

"The point is," I said, getting exasperated with myself, "it's too early to worry about your control. Once your eyes start to clear, we can begin working on it, but that is months away, and in the meantime, you needn't feel bad for acting like a vampire." She flinched at the word, and I cursed myself again for the pain I always seemed to cause her. Guilt still played around the corners of her eyes. "Were you harmed?" I asked.

"Of course not," she answered, confused by the question.

"Neither was I, so let's think no more of it. And I'll take precautions so I'm not so tempting in the future." Her eyes widened, and I groaned internally as I heard Edward coughing behind me. I stood, finding it impossible to believe that a simple conversation could be so difficult. I'd been conversing in a multitude of languages for centuries, but with this one woman, I couldn't string five sentences together without offending her, embarrassing her, or causing her pain. Even as I longed to approach her, reassure her, comfort her, there were so many reasons to hold back, not the least of which was Edward's warning. I trusted him to have good reason to tell me it _couldn't be me_, even if I wasn't sure to what exactly he was referring.

I looked around the room for some topic with which to continue the conversation. I saw her book, and then the vase, and I realized I still had the flowers in my hand. I should take the vase to the kitchen and leave them be...

"How was work, Carlisle?" Edward's question interrupted my escape.

"It was fine, as I said before," I answered, turning to look at him. He was on one knee as he adjusted the wood in the fireplace.

"Who is Michael Evans?"

"A colleague," I answered, shrugging. "He seemed relieved to have me back. There were some rumors, apparently, that we might be moving."

"Anything about Esme?" he asked, poking the logs.

"Ah, no," I said, glancing at her. "Though to be fair, I don't think anyone ever realized she was there. I removed her from the morgue before she'd been checked in properly."

"No one will look for me," Esme said, and both Edward and I turned to study her. It struck me as a sad thing to say, though her voice held no regret. "No one will look for me that I would want to have find me, anyway… even if I weren't dangerous to them…" Her eyes glazed slightly as if daydreaming.

"Not even Mrs. Brighton?" Edward asked, interrupting her train of thought.

"The superintendent at the school?" I asked, and Edward nodded.

She shook her head. "After Colin died, I told her I was leaving my teaching post. She has no reason to think I didn't do that. She'd tell anyone at the school I'd left town. No one else who knows me realizes I live here… the only person I'd want to see would know better than to try to find me."

"Why is that?" I asked, surprised. Could someone be aware that Esme was dangerous now?

Esme looked down at her fingers for a moment, weighing her words, it seemed. Then she looked up at us. "She wouldn't try to find me, because she'd know that she'd be followed, and she loves me enough not to let them find me."

I was stunned. Esme had been _hiding_ in Ashland? From whom? In her second week with us, I'd gone into town one night and broken into the office at her school; I'd checked her records, ensuring no one would likely be looking for her. I'd seen her personnel file: Esme Carmichael, war widow. Qualified to teach reading, writing, art, and early math. No surviving family. Looking at her now, it seemed the story was much more complicated.

"Esme?"

She stood abruptly and hesitantly reached for the flowers. "Why don't I put those in water? They're going to fade otherwise." She gave me a quick smile and took the bouquet as I tried to measure the pain on her face…pain that had nothing to do with me or anything I'd ever done. She took the vase from the table and left the room, heading toward the kitchen.

As she rounded the corner of the library doorway, I turned to Edward.

_Whom is she hiding from? She's a widow!_

He pursed his lips, giving me a pained look. Then he looked to the doorway.

"Esme, Carlisle and I are going to go get some more firewood. We'll be back in a few minutes," Edward said loudly enough to carry to the kitchen and be heard over the sound of running water.

"Okay…I think the fireplace in the music room is low, too," she called back shakily.

"We'll take care of it. We'll take care of everything," he added, looking directly at me and nodding. He motioned toward the door, and I turned to go outside, where if we were careful, we could talk privately. This seemed to be his intention. I didn't know how much of her story he was willing to share with me, but right now, I was willing to carry firewood endlessly for even a scrap of information about anyone who might be still looking to harm her. I recalled every old injury I'd found on her in the morgue and during her transformation: every scar, every poorly healed bone. I knew there were likely others where I'd refused to look. I'd assumed that the threat was gone, that whoever had hurt her was long since dead. To think that the people responsible were still alive, still _looking_ for her, still wishing to cause her harm… my fists began clenching as I made my way to the front door.

We stepped out into newly falling snow. It was cold and quiet and peaceful looking. It was the antithesis of the hot rage growing within me, wanting to burst forth and incinerate any who threatened her. And for the first time in my existence, I felt no desire whatsoever to maintain my own control.

_AN: Finally, a talk coming up in the next chapter…seems like they need it. I will add the aria to NixHaw's playlist (http: / grooveshark . com / # / playlist / Prelude+In+C+By+Atonau / 60866524) and to my profile page soon. And check out a translation…_

_Those of you who haven't found 'Intermezzo in E Minor' yet, you can find that on my profile as well. And I can be found on Twitter (ATONAU), if you want to see where I am with the next chapter, or just chat about the characters. _

_And much thanks, as always, for reading. I love to hear your thoughts._


	22. Chapter 22

_AN: Sorry for the long delay. I got distracted with a side project, but that is finished now, and I'm excited to give Prelude and Intermezzo my full attention again. Also sorry for not responding to all of the reviews last chapter...I'm still going through them, but I know it's not the same to get a response two months later. I read and treasured each one, and promise to go back to my usual response habits this chapter.  
_

_Thanks to my beta, Coleen561, and all my writing crew. Thanks to Zoya Zalan, my music guru for helping me discover Erik Satie, and Nixhaw for maintaining the Grooveshark playlist for Prelude (http: / grooveshark . com / # / playlist / Prelude+In+C+By+Atonau / 60866524). _

_SM continues to own these characters; I just enjoy torturing them._

_Speaking of, we left off with Carlisle finally aware that Esme was hiding in Ashland from her abusers (you might want to read the last few paragraphs of Chapter 21 to remind yourself, as we'll be picking up straight from there). He found the news upsetting, and is hoping for some details from Edward. _

* * *

Chapter 22

CPOV

I stormed down the steps and waited, impatiently, for Edward. After a moment I heard "La Boheme" drifting on the air, and then Edward abruptly came through the door, closing it behind him, thereby muffling the chords of the opening duet. He gave me a grim nod of greeting as he came down the stairs. I motioned with my arm for him to go past me.

_Lead the way…_

He trudged through the snow, heading to the edge of the clearing, where an axe protruded from a flattened, worn stump. He pulled it out, placed a large log on the stump, and adjusted his hold on the handle of the axe.

_We're actually chopping firewood?_ I thought incredulously.

He glared at me. "Yes," he whispered. "For the sake of my piano and your mental health, and to prevent Esme from thinking that I lied to her, we are actually going to chop wood."

He shifted his grip again so that the handle was reaching toward me. _I _was actually going to chop wood, it seemed. He smirked.

"While we talk," he added. "Go on, take it. You need to work off some of that pent up anger."

I gave him a harsh look, just barely forming a caustic reply in my mind when he shifted his grip again.

"On second thought, giving you an axe right now might not be a good idea."

He swung the blade into the log, sending pieces tumbling to the ground.

_Edward!_

He bent over to pick up one of the hewn logs and placed it back on the stump, raising an eyebrow at me.

_From WHOM is she hiding?_

The axe swung and split the wood again. "I'm not sure," he whispered.

I closed my eyes in frustration. I _knew_ he knew. Why would he keep it from me?

The axe fell into the stump with enough force to shake the ground. I opened my eyes to find him glaring at me.

"When have I _ever_ lied to you, Carlisle?" he whispered harshly. "Yes, she's hiding. I can see them in her mind, and I can guess who they are, but I don't _know_. She doesn't talk to me. I see glimpses, but I can't always tell which memories came first. You know how my gift works: I don't get a book!" he said, tossing a log down to the ground where it sunk into the snow. "I don't get everything spelled out in chronological order with nice illustrations. I get jigsaw puzzle pieces, that form _part_ of a picture, but since I don't know what the picture is meant to be, I can't even be sure how the pieces fit together. It's not linear, and it's not clear. She links memories together that don't seem to have anything in common. It feels chaotic at times, but it's not. She's just…I don't know. She's a newborn, and her mind's all over the place, and every turn it takes, one of them is there. And she doesn't want them to be." He placed another log on the stump and split it harshly.

"How many? She said her friend wouldn't let _them_ find her…how many is she hiding from?"

He balanced another log on the stump, pausing as if debating how much to tell me.

_Edward, please. I know you've promised not to betray her trust. And I don't want you to… I just… I need to understand the risk._

He swung the blade again; the resounding crack of splitting wood echoed through the valley. "Five, maybe six, but I think she's really only scared of one."

_Her husband?_ I hoped it wasn't true. I hoped she was a widow…

"I think so."

I nodded, my chest tightening. _Mr. Carmichael?_

He shook his head. So not her husband, unless...

_She's using an assumed last name?_

He nodded, and swung the axe again, a little harder than necessary.

I scrubbed my face with my hand, trying to make sense of this new information. When I'd first encountered her in the morgue, I'd wanted to save her. And then when I'd discovered she was a widow, I'd thought she hadn't needed saving, at least not from the people responsible for her abuse. And now…

"Is it worse to think that she might have saved herself?" came Edward's soft whisper.

I looked up at Edward, who was now studying my face as he leaned on the axe handle.

_Of course not! That would be… that would be…_

"Amazingly brave and admirable?"

_Yes. Is that what happened?_

He shrugged stiffly. "The only way to know for sure is to talk to her. You need to talk to her, Carlisle."

That didn't make sense. I thought he didn't want me talking to her.

"Why would you think that?" Edward's confusion was clear on his face.

I shook my head slightly, bemused. "You told me it couldn't be me…"

His eyes were wide, and he was practically sputtering. "Is that why you've held her at arm's length?"

"I haven't…" I protested.

He looked at me reproachfully.

"I just thought…you must have had a good reason for saying it."

"I did, but it only applied to restraining her. You can't be the one to _restrain_ her."

He didn't want me that close to her.

"That's not it," he whispered, shaking his head.

I thought about what had happened during that hunt. How frantic she'd become.

_Because of the physicality. She reacts differently when _I'm_ the one who is physically forceful with her._

"Sort of. She doesn't like it when I restrain her either, but she doesn't see me as a threat…"

"She sees me as a _threat_?" I hissed. How had that happened? I'd only ever been kind to her, only ever _wanted_ to be kind…

"No…well, maybe. Not _you_ exactly." He swung the axe again, contemplating. "That's part of the confusion. She doesn't see you as a threat, but she does see you as an authority figure. The head of our household. So when you restrain her, it links to all these memories where men in positions of power… they… " He trailed off, shuddering, and apparently deciding he was saying too much. He was having a visceral reaction to her memories. He slammed the axe into a stump and covered his eyes with his fists, slumping as if receiving a blow.

_Edward?_

He looked up into my face, haunted. Oh, god, what he must be seeing in her mind. I reached out for him and pulled him into my arms. He offered no resistance, sagging against me and letting me absorb some of his tension, even if he wouldn't share the details of its cause. I couldn't comfort Esme, but I could at least comfort Edward.

"Me, she barely sees as a man," he whispered into my shoulder. "She doesn't _like_ it when I restrain her, but it doesn't trigger anything else. She sees me as her equal."

_And what does she see me as? _ I was almost scared to find out.

He pulled away from me. "She… It's complicated, and I shouldn't say. That's not my story. None of this is," he whispered, sighing and running his hand through his hair, scattering the powdery snow that was accumulating in it. "You have to start talking to her, Carlisle. That's the only way any of this will move forward, I think. And if she won't talk, use your powers of observation. Don't rely on my gift; I can't offer it this time. You lived without me for centuries and interacted with humans. You've seen injuries like hers before. You know what she must have escaped," he whispered harshly. "Think of how it must have felt to be trapped in that marriage. And think about how it parallels her life now."

_Her life now? We don't abuse her, _I thought indignantly.

He shook his head, almost wearily. "If she tried to leave the house without us and head toward the town, how would we react?"

I froze. We'd stop her. And she knew it. I ran my hand over my face. She was not free to leave until her training was finished, not if she wanted to avoid hunting humans. Yet that lack of freedom must feel unnervingly familiar to her. And I'd been, as yet, completely insensitive to it.

Edward was watching me carefully as the revelation took hold. "Okay," I nodded. _Thank you, Edward. I know you don't like to talk about her — divulge her secrets — I'll try not to ask you to do it again._

He shrugged, looking back toward the house for a moment. "I didn't really tell you much you hadn't already guessed. Just… include her more. She's a newborn; you're her sire. She's frightened, but she still wants your approval, just like I did… well, when I wasn't being a brat and punishing you."

"You weren't that bad," I said smiling, but grateful we were past all the turmoil of our first year. We'd been friends long enough now that all the uncertainty and drama seemed like a distant, unpleasant dream. I remembered the year perfectly, of course. But the contrast between that time and now was so great that my memories took on a surreal quality. What we were now was so much more solid. Well, what we _had_ been, before Esme came and made a wreck of me, made me doubt everything, and made Edward the wiser of the two of us. I shook my head at myself. In my hesitancy, I'd been failing her, in trying to make her feel safe, I'd made her feel trapped. "You shouldn't have had to tell me that Esme wants my approval," I said ruefully.

"It's partly my fault. I'm so focused on her that I didn't notice when you'd misinterpreted my meaning. You were talking to her more before that incident; I remember now. I'm sorry, Carlisle."

I put my hand on his shoulder. This wasn't his fault: he was in a terrible position. I regretted the time lost with Esme, but it was my fault for not coming to him sooner for clarification. I would just have to make up for the lost time, somehow. And fortunately, Edward had been doing a good job keeping her safe and being her friend. She was not lost.

"We're all just doing the best we can, Edward. It's new to all of us. I'm sorry I've been so jealous of you. I just… I want to know everything about her," I admitted abruptly, surprising us both with my candor. "And you already do…"

He looked at me sympathetically. "I don't know as much as you think I do. I know her pain, and what she fears, but I don't understand how things fit together. She'll have to talk to us before we'll understand that." He paused, leaning on the axe for a moment. "She tolerates the fact that I see her thoughts…she's comforted by it, in a strange way, but she still doesn't trust me enough to explain anything. You'll have to earn her confidence the old-fashioned way. Just… don't push too hard. She's…" he ran his hand through his hair, searching for words. "God, she startles like a bird sometimes, and she doesn't like to feel pressured, or trapped. Try telling her about yourself at first, rather than asking a lot of questions."

_That's sound advice for easing her worries, but I can't imagine what I could tell her that she'd find compelling. She's so passionate, and I'm so… _I had no way of finishing.

He just smirked and reached down to stack the chopped firewood. "Come on, old man, let's get this into the house before Esme's record is over and she notices how long we've been gone."

We returned to the house to find Esme sitting very close to the gramophone, concentrating on the music, almost as if she had been granting us all the privacy she could manage. She looked up at us, eyes narrowing slightly, but then glanced at the flowers that were now in the vase.

"Excuse me, Esme," Edward said as he moved past her to the fireplace. She smiled at him, and then looked up again at me, almost expectantly.

I smiled, trying to think of something to say — something about myself that she might find interesting. "I guess I'll build up the fire in the music room," I said finally. I sighed; I still had no idea how to approach her, engage her. I'd grown so accustomed to playing the odd man out, that I didn't know quite what to do now that I was invited back in, especially knowing that she saw me as an authority figure, and therefore in the same role as the man…men who had hurt her. It was sobering, and made me feel even more cautious about forcing my friendship and confidence on her. And there was something else… something in Edward's expression when he'd paused and said he shouldn't say how Esme thought of me. Esme and I had met when she was an impressionable young girl. And I was a doctor: another authority figure. Had she already associated me with those other men? Did I even have a chance to earn her trust, much less her friendship? And I wondered if our meeting had affected her the way it had me. If it had given her hope, infused her with an unexpected optimism.

I imagined not; she had been so luminous in her innocence and unique view of the world. And I had been… depressed, sleepwalking through my existence. Esme had recognized me when she'd awakened from her change; I had made that much of an impression, at least. But I doubted I had given her the same hope she had given me.

"Carlisle?" Edward called from the library as I finally had the fire in the music room blazing again.

"Yes?" I answered, reentering the room where the two of them sat on either side of the gramophone.

"Didn't you see _La Boheme_? Was it in Italy?"

"Oh, no… I left Italy several decades before Puccini was even born. I saw _La Boheme_ in New York, in… 1899. I'd been living in Maine at the time, and made the trip down. It was already quite famous by then."

Esme sputtered. "You've seen this? What was it like?" I gazed at the woman before me and, for a moment, I could almost see the enthusiasm of the girl I remembered.

"Wonderful," I said, "and terribly sad, but of course much opera is. I think I have a program and synopsis from the Royal Opera House production somewhere in my study. Would you like to see it? There's a picture of the building, and it's quite stunning."

Esme stood excitedly to follow me, and I looked over her shoulder at Edward, who was smirking happily. _Thank you. I didn't know how to begin._ He nodded and looked to the doorway, shooing me out.

So began my friendship with Esme, superficial as it was. These conversations about places I'd been, and art or architecture I'd seen, were not necessary for her training, and had nothing to do with control. She was at ease during them, almost enjoying herself, almost open. I treasured these glimpses of happiness, because they were so rare.

More often, she was frustrated, or angry: understandable at this stage in her development. What was more concerning was the anxiety she felt when we were training her: her constant worry about the possible consequences of disappointing us. She was so apprehensive, as though any setback would be met on our side by fury. Even after all these weeks, we had obviously not been able to convince her that she was safe. She never said anything, but it was in the way she carried herself, her expressions, her flinches. And there _were_ setbacks. Both her joy and her pain could prove damaging to the furniture.

But what was even more concerning than any of that were the periods of time when she was lost in her memories… lost to us. A mist would cloud her eyes, and she would seem to physically diminish before us, and Edward would grow tense and pained. I was outside all of it, without a window of understanding, unsure how to help either one of them. And watching her passion fade to moods of tepid grey pained me more than I would have imagined.

Weeks went by as the snow fell lightly and grey clouds blanketed our world. We sat by the window in the library, and I tried to steer the conversation toward more personal subjects. I tried delicately to explain that her human memories would fade if she would resist thinking of them now that she was a vampire. That she should think only of happy memories: purple clouds and trees and the comforts of her childhood home. She nodded, crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing her hands over her upper arm, comforting herself. She was agitated around me, almost always, and I wasn't sure how to make her more comfortable. I did have an idea of how to ease her feeling of… imprisonment. I came home one afternoon and gave her a checkbook for her own account, with enough money to get her started on any life she chose. She took it, shocked, and stared at me for a long time.

"I thought I was to live with you," she finally said.

"During your training that would be best… without our support you would likely revert to your vampire instincts, and… hunt your natural prey."

"I don't want that," she said quickly. She steadied herself with a deep breath. "I want to be like you and Edward."

"And so you will be, in time," I reassured. "And you are welcome to stay with us for as long as you like… decades, centuries, if you wish. But if you don't wish to, if you chose to make your own way in life, you are free to do so, and now have the means to get started. Though I would hope… I would _hope_ that we would remain friends."

She looked at me wide-eyed and silent, as if I'd grown another head. Then she looked at the checkbook, at the balance, and the name.

"I created it in the name of Esme Carmichael, but if there is another name you'd prefer, we can change it. I just thought…you might have reason to use that name."

She looked up at me abruptly, alarmed, but then forced herself calm.

"Thank you, Carlisle." And she fled to her room.

Her newborn madness began to fade. Her control grew better in hunting; she was actually able to hold conversations while stalking, splitting her attention between the rational tasks and the instinctual one. Less and less of the furniture was damaged during her mood swings. Her clothing was lasting longer before needing to be replaced. She was learning control. I bought her things that I thought would help employ her mind: art supplies and sketchpads, books on sculpture and architecture. I made her a bookshelf for her room, to store her new things, but they remained almost completely untouched. The only exception was the tea she asked me to buy her. She didn't drink it, of course, but she would lift the delicate porcelain cup to her face, like it was a test of her control, and allow the steam to permeate her senses. To Edward and me it smelled acrid and vile, but it gave her comfort.

Finally, in her eighth week with us, I brought home her bed when I returned from the hospital. I entered the house and greeted Edward, who was playing at his piano.

_Esme?_ I asked.

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. She was in her room, where she spent a vast amount of time these days. I climbed the stairs slowly, feeling like this was now a foreign part of the house. Edward and Esme's rooms were up here, but I had little reason to enter either. I knocked gently on her door; after a moment's hesitation, she called for me to enter.

She was curled in the window seat, looking out across the trees outside. She looked… trapped and resigned, like a caged bird, and my chest tightened at the sight.

"Esme, I picked up your bed today," I said gently. "Would it be okay if I brought it in now and put it together?"

She nodded and then turned back to the window. She said less and less these days. Edward thought that as the flames of newborn fury receded from her, they must be taking her natural light and warmth, too. Despite our efforts to caution her, she was lost in her recollections, weighed down by their cold and cruel nature, listless. Those memories that she would most like to forget she was instead cementing into her vampire brain. They would be with her forever now, and we were losing her as she slipped into a depression. I was beginning to read everything I could on my breaks at the hospital, trying to find a way to help her.

Edward appeared at my side, putting a hand on my shoulder in commiseration. He was worried about her, too. We made several trips to the truck and back, bringing up the pieces of the frame and then putting them together. When the cherry wood frame was complete, we brought up the feather mattress, then the bedding and pillows. Finally, Edward collected together all the tools as I hung the drapes. As Esme requested, all the linens were white, as were the gossamer curtains. When it was completely assembled, it did look a bit like something out of a children's book… innocent and ethereal.

We looked up at Esme to see her studying us intently. Her eyes went to the bed, and the emotions flickering across her face were unfathomable.

"Is it okay, Esme? Is it what you wanted?" I asked carefully.

She looked at me, eyes wide. "I'm really allowed to lie on it? It's so beautiful."

"Of course," I answered, confused. "Why else would we have brought it to you? Here," I opened the gap in the sheer curtain and pulled it back to create a triangular opening in the gauze, "try it."

She gingerly walked over, slipped off her delicate shoes, and climbed into the bed through the opening. She sank back into the pillows, brushing her hands across their surfaces in wonder as I let the gauze drift back into place, sealing her gossamer cocoon.

"It's like floating in a cloud," she murmured, and I smiled, thinking that _this_ finally sounded like Esme. She was so changed, so worn down by the world, but every so often a sentence would escape that made me believe the girl I'd met, the girl with the astounding perception and unique perspective, was still there beneath the layers of pain and self preservation. I looked at her, the sheer cloth shifting and softly obscuring her features, and she _looked_ like she was in a cloud.

"Well, that's fitting," I said, smiling. "I know how you like clouds; you once climbed a tree to get closer to them."

Her eyes darted to mine, and I saw just a flash of mischief in them, the first I'd seen since she arrived.

"Our Esme climbs trees?" Edward asked, arching an eyebrow. "That would be a memory worth sharing." He winced and looked at me. "Well, no doubt you could climb even higher now, and would not risk broken bones, even in the unlikely event that you did fall."

She was gently smiling, looking at both of us, but then sighed. Her eyes glazed over again, a film of desolation clouding their light. Still, her fingers stroked the pillows, and I sensed she was more present than I'd seen her in some time.

"Thank you, Carlisle. It's perfect," she sighed.

Edward picked up the toolbox and touched my shoulder, looking at the door. I nodded, sighing. She wanted privacy.

"You're most welcome, Esme. Please let me know if I can get you anything else."

Edward stopped and turned toward her, brow furrowed.

"Yesterday afternoon?" he asked, in response to a question I couldn't hear. "Probably the Satie... Yes, I suppose it does have a cloud-like quality: it drifts. Sure, I'll play it again if you like."

Edward spent the rest of the afternoon playing Esme's requests: sparse, beautifully melancholy pieces by Erik Satie. The Trois Gymnopédies was a particular favorite, but over the following weeks it would come to symbolize her descent. Her moods no longer swung. They were centered on her depression. Even fury would have been preferable. I would have gladly replaced furniture just to see her acting in the present, but she was lost in the past.

She lay for days at a time on her bed, never rising. Sometimes she sobbed silently, but more often she just looked through the gauze curtains to the window. Edward tried to shake her out of it. He played ragtime to try to cheer her, Beethoven to try to make her angry, but her mood was always Satie… constant, spare, full of space and echos. Aching.

Edward, on the other hand, wanted to play Scriabin, or something equally dissonant and violent. He was suffering, too. But where the memories left Esme listless and resigned, they often made Edward furious. He _needed_ to vent, play something that would move the anger out through his fingers on the ivories, but that just made Esme worse.

And I was no help. She rarely responded to any of my efforts to engage her in conversation about art or music. Whatever interest she'd previously shown in such pursuits had been drowned in her mounting grief. Whether she was mourning her child or herself, I couldn't be sure. It was only when Edward grew tense and angry that I felt confident she was reliving some terrible abuse, and not the death of her son.

The only thing I could think to do was to approach the situation as a doctor, with Esme as a patient. I hadn't studied psychology extensively, but now I read anything I could get my hands on: William James, Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung. Most psychologists or psychiatrists emphasized talking as therapy, and though I was willing to try to talk Esme through her issues, anytime I tried to steer our conversations toward the personal, whether it be her history or even mine, she immediately changed the subject to something safer. Or she simply walked away. But the more I read these famous psychologists, the more I became convinced that their underlying assumptions were a poor fit for Esme's situation, or what I knew of it. Her symptoms, and her circumstances, seemed more in line with descriptions of what soldiers suffered after returning from the Great War. Esme seemed shellshocked, as if she'd returned from a battlefield and did not know how to let go of the strategies that had allowed her to survive the ordeal.

I sat on the sofa in the wee hours of the morning with a stack of medical journals on the table before me, reading through the suggested treatments for shellshock. Many doctors were experimenting with therapies ranging from the usual psychoanalysis to opiates and even electroshock therapy, which had surprising results in some forms of depression, though the mechanism wasn't at all understood.

Edward appeared abruptly in the doorway, eyes wide.

_What's happening? Is she in trouble? _ I dropped the journal I'd been reading and stood to rush up the stairs.

He put up a hand to stop me and looked meaningfully at the journal.

I glanced at it and turned back to search his face. _What?_

He glared at me, whispering harshly, "You aren't seriously considering electro—"

_No!_ I interrupted, praying that Esme hadn't heard him. He shook his head, and I breathed a sigh of relief. _Of course not. I'm just trying to understand, in the face of almost no data. She won't talk to me; she won't talk to you. Electroshock therapy does seem to work for certain types of depression, but the efficacy in shellshock cases is ambiguous at best. And the side effects are serious. And it's reported as being painful. And those results are in humans. There's no telling if it would be at all helpful in a vampire. _

I ran my hand through my hair, trying to collect my thoughts. When I looked at Edward again, he seemed much more sympathetic. _What's happening to her… this retreat into herself… it isn't part of the normal development of a vampire. I've never seen it so severe. You mourned your parents, but you were always aware of your surroundings, you still told me when you had to hunt. I'm very worried about her. She's not adapting well to this life, and… I don't know what to do for her. _

He looked away, hands on his hips, as he considered my words. He was worried, too. I could tell from his manner. He had less direct experience than I had, but he'd seen enough in my mind to know the range of behaviors typical in the first months. He scrubbed his face and moved closer to me leaning in and whispering very softly.

"You think you need to treat her as though she's been through a war?"

I searched his face, trying to decide if he were offering me a hint. _You'd know better than I._ His lips pressed together in a grim line. _Her behavior, if viewed as a symptom, is indicative of shellshock. She relives bad experiences over and over, does she not? _ He didn't answer, but he didn't deny it. _I don't know the exact nature of those experiences, but I saw some of the results. Soldiers have come back from the front with fewer injuries. And those were just the injuries that left lasting marks…_

His eyes grew even more haunted, and I saw the weight of the knowledge he bore. I wished I could ease it. I wished I could ease it from both of them. If Esme would talk to me, things might improve, but I could not force her to. And I could not ask Edward to share what he knew, though I desperately wanted to. I'd even considered writing to Carmen… perhaps Esme would have an easier time talking with another woman. But I quickly dismissed the idea. Carmen would have to stay long enough to earn Esme's trust, and that would mean either bringing Eleazar with her — which would almost certainly not help, and might even involve the sisters — or it would mean separating Carmen from her mate for the sake of a woman she did not know. Either case seemed like unlikely conditions for anything productive to take place. And so it was just Edward and me, trying to help her as best we could. And nothing was changing; no one was talking. We were all frozen in place, frozen in our circumstances, our understanding…

Edward went back to his piano, playing the haunting "Trois Gymnopédies," a piece that had become a theme of our lives since Esme had sunk into this malaise. It was beautiful, like her, but grey and ironically all the space in the piece didn't make it feel airy, but heavy, as if a weight had settled on my chest. I knew that Esme was lying in her bed, remembering the darkness of her past and her struggles in her new life, viewing the world through those sheer curtains that gave everything a grey and shadowy appearance. The music came to symbolize that for me. Her beautiful, terrible melancholy.

Weeks later, we were in our usual places: Edward at his piano, Esme in her bed, and I on the sofa in the library, where I could crane my neck and watch Edward play if I wished to. He was playing Satie's Gnossienne No. 1, which was bleaker than the Gymnope, if that were possible. But his shoulders betrayed a tension that was not to be heard in the almost lethargic rhythm of the music. Abruptly, he banged his hands down on the piano keys in the middle of the song out of frustration. I was immediately at his side, a hand on his shoulder trying to calm him.

_Edward, please. That can't help._

He looked up at me, and I've never seen him look so haunted.

"Evenson…" he whispered as his eyes drifted away from me. It was uttered so softly that I wouldn't have heard it if I hadn't been standing next to him.

_What?_

He shook his head and took a deep breath. "Esme," he said in a gentle tone. "_Please_ try to think of something else. We've told you before: the more you dwell on it, the more firmly it will settle in your mind, and you'll be haunted by the memories forever. If you just… stopped, they would fade, and you'd be free of them… I know. I know it feels like you can't help it, but you should try."

He winced. I could only imagine her reply.

_Edward._

He looked up at me, and I squeezed his shoulder. _Take a break. Go run for a while; get clear of the house. I'll try to distract her._

He nodded and mouthed "thank you" before bolting out the door.

I went to the library and put a Bach on the gramophone. I looked around the room for something that might help, and saw her half-read _The Secret Garden_ on the corner table. I took it, and the vase of flowers… it was doing her no good down here… and took them both to her room. Standing at the threshold, I watched her form through the sheer white fabric of her bed curtains. She looked incredibly fragile, but that filmy fabric looked impenetrable, as if it were marble instead of gauze. I had no idea if there were a way to reach through it to her, but I would try.

"Esme?"

Nothing. But at least she hadn't told me to leave. It had been a while since I'd tried to get her to open up to me. Several weeks ago she would have told me to leave. But I wasn't going to ask her to talk today. Nor was I going to ask her to listen to anything personal. That hadn't worked.

I put the flowers on the bedside table and moved the chair closer to the bed. I sat and began reading from where it appeared she'd left off.

"Chapter 9," I started. "The Strangest House Any One Ever Lived In." There was a brief pause as I registered the irony of the title, and then I launched into the chapter. I absently wished that I found the pleasure in irony that Edward did. Used to, at least. I doubt he found enjoyment in the irony that, for Esme's sake, he had to play music that was the opposite of what he himself needed when subjected to the same horrible memories. I certainly didn't enjoy the irony that I had to, for all our safety, spend so much time at the hospital when I was clearly needed here. Or the irony that the hospital, which had served to give meaning to my existence for over a century, was beginning to feel like a prison, a _distraction_ from my purpose. But the worst irony was that, though I'd found Esme, she seemed more lost every day.

I read, and she was still, her body turned away from me. She didn't even breathe through the first chapter. Slowly, she began to relax. Her back, which had been held stiff, loosened into a gentle curve. Two chapters later she rolled over on the bed to face me, clearly listening. Edward returned during Chapter 12 and changed the record, and I continued to read as the night waned. Finally, at Chapter 18, I closed the book, and she looked at me curiously.

"I have to get ready to go to the hospital," I said apologetically. "Shall I finish it tonight, or do you want to read it with Edward while I'm gone?"

"I'll wait for you," she said quietly.

I nodded, standing. "Have a nice day, Esme. We'll hunt when I get home tonight."

Another week went by, and the pattern remained the same. We finished _The Secret Garden_, and I next read her _Alice in Wonderland._ It seemed fitting.

She sometimes asked that I stop, and we just listened to Edward play, but most nights she was content to listen. Content to have me sit in the room with her, so long as we did not discuss anything personal.

The snow had finally melted, and mud clung to my shoes as I removed them before entering the house. I was returning home after a double shift, the first I'd been required to complete since Esme joined us. And I'd been delayed even more, because it was time to replenish her flowers.

I walked in, as I did every night, and looked at Edward as he sat playing his piano.

_Esme?_

He looked at the ceiling, as he did every night. I nodded, and moved to the stairs.

"She's been crying," he whispered softly.

I paused for just a moment, and then climbed the stairs with her flowers.

"Esme?" I asked at her threshold. As always, there was no answer, but neither did she tell me to leave. I went to the table, glancing at her lying on the bed, facing away from me. I began pulling the dead flowers from the arrangement and replacing them with fresh ones: daffodils and early tulips today. It was May, and the rest of the world, anyway, was showing signs of life.

I wrapped the dead flowers in the paper I'd brought the fresh ones in, preparing to take them to the garbage. I wasn't sure what to read tonight. I wasn't sure she still wanted me to read. I felt weary. I turned to leave when I heard a rustle from the bed.

"Carlisle?"

I turned and stared. It was the first time she'd initiated contact with either Edward or me in weeks.

"Yes, Esme?" I whispered.

She turned her head, but not all the way to look at me. She was looking at the ceiling; I could see her profile. It would seem she was meeting me halfway.

"Why do you bring me flowers?"

I stood, speechless, looking from her back to the flowers. Finally I asked, "Don't you like them?"

"I do. But why do you bring them?"

"They were Edward's idea."

She turned her body a little more, as if wanting to look at me but not finding the energy. "Edward brought the first ones, but you've brought all the rest. I've had fresh flowers since I awakened to this life. Why do you do it?"

I walked around the bed, and her gaze followed me as I moved into her view. I wanted to see her face, shrouded as it was through the curtains. I knelt so I was level with her face, and she turned and laid her head on her pillow. We were eye to eye, ninety degrees off from each other. Looking at her through the shimmering fabric, I wanted so badly to be on the inside of it. To be inside her cocoon with her, to comfort her, show her that she wasn't alone, despite these fragile barriers she put between us. Instead I looked through it, from the outside, viewing her as if through a bridal veil…

"Edward said you would like them. There's so little I can seem to do for you," I said helplessly. "So little that seems to help. It's a trifle, pointless perhaps, but it's something I can do. So I bring them. I don't let them fade. I hope… I hope they give you hope. Life… beauty…" I faltered. I wasn't sure what I meant, but the drive to bring her flowers was real. It may have been born of duty and habit, but now I couldn't imagine stopping. I prayed she didn't ask me to.

"Hmmm," she said finally, looking away for a moment, and I thought perhaps that was the end of the conversation, until her eyes found mine again. "Do you remember the first time we met?"

My breath hitched. If only she knew. "Perfectly," I answered in a whisper. After a moment's consideration, I asked, "Do you?"

A small smile warmed her face. "Imperfectly," she said, quirking an eyebrow. "But I remember your eyes."

"My eyes?" I asked, knowing what she meant, but wondering if she really remembered the things she'd said.

"They were so beautiful," she said wistfully, "but so sad. Haunted."

I nodded, remembering. With her artist's eye, she'd claimed to see secret shapes in them: weariness and sadness. "I'd been alone for a long time…centuries," I said in explanation.

"I know. _Now_ I know. Then, I couldn't understand it. Why someone so young and warm and beautiful could be so sad." Her hand reached toward me, grazing the sheer curtain, and pulling it aside, studying me without the shield as I held my breath, expectantly. "They're gone," she whispered, her eyes flicking between mine. "The shapes are gone. Edward cleared your eyes. I'm _so_ glad you have him. I'm so glad that you aren't sad anymore. Only when you worry about me…that's the only time your eyes cloud. I'm sorry for that."

"Don't apologize, Esme," I whispered. And I couldn't help myself. I couldn't stop my hand from breaching the invisible wall of her sanctuary, for that was truly what the bed had become. My hand slowly moved toward her temple, pausing as her eyes watched warily. She almost flinched, watching my hand approach her face, but her gaze returned to mine, and she swallowed and waited. After a moment, my fingers found her hair and brushed it gently back.

"If the shapes are gone because of Edward, let _that_ give you hope. For as bad as I was when you met me, I'd been far worse. When I first awoke to this life, I was alone, and terrified, and horrified at what I'd become… what drives I had. I tried to destroy myself ma—"

"_What_?" she gasped. My hand paused.

I was surprised. "Edward never told you?"

"No. He says that I need to ask you questions if I want to know about you."

A small chuckle escaped as my fingers began stroking her hair again. "He tells me the same thing," I whispered.

"So you tried, you tried…"

"To kill myself. Many, many times. I jumped from cliffs, tried to drown myself, tried to starve myself. Countless times. So, you see, even though I don't know the details of what you've been through, I understand the pain. I understand the level of…"

"…despair," she whispered.

"Yes, despair. I understand it. And if I can make it back, if I can find joy in the world, I know you can, too. You, who can find beauty in _anything.._."

Pain washed over her face. "I used to be like that."

"You can be again."

"I don't know, Carlisle. I've lost so much of myself. And then the one hope I had, little Colin, I lost him before I even really had him. My arms always feel empty..."

My chest tightened. She was so beautiful…exquisite in her pain. Like a sonnet. But I didn't want her to _be_ art. I wanted her to live, to _make _art, if she chose. I had no idea how to help her, but I knew I would try, everyday, forever. If there were a way to wipe the despair from _her_ eyes, I would find it.

I moved my hand from her temple to her hand that lingered on the sheer curtain, and laced our fingers together. I held up our joined hands before her questioning eyes.

"I know it's not the same, Esme. I know it's not the same as having your precious son in your arms. I know I've caused you to live with that pain, and whatever… _other_ pain you are suffering from, for much longer than you wished to. But I also know that an empty life can feel full again. If I can't help you fill your arms today, perhaps we can at least fill your hand. You are not alone, Esme. Edward and I are here with you, and you need never face your pain alone again. I won't force my friendship on you, but it is yours if you want it, and I will fight for you, fight _with_ you, to help you find your hope. And someday, I have faith that _your_ eyes will be free of pain, too."

She looked shocked from my outburst. Her eyes flashed with something fierce and strong, and I thought for a moment, just a moment, she was going to confide in me, allow me to help. Allow me in. But her eyes narrowed slightly, and I could read doubt, and then mistrust, and finally resignation. And then her eyes lowered, and I could not read anything. She wiggled her fingers, and I loosened my grip, allowing her to remove her hand from mine. She pulled it back slowly, almost regretfully, and tucked both hands under her cheek as she curled tighter into a ball amongst her pillows and covers. She shook her head slightly, and then finally looked up at me.

"I can't," she whispered. "I'm not ready."

I knew better than to think it would be so easy. And yet I felt a glimmer of hope. We'd made a start: had a conversation that wasn't careful and impersonal. I had divulged a secret, and she had shared a true emotion, and even if it was fleeting, we'd had a real connection. I stroked the hair at her temple one more time.

"It's okay, Esme. You take your time. We have all the time in the world." I drew back and let the curtain fall, the shimmering fabric obscuring her features, and I left her to her thoughts.

More weeks passed. The crocuses burst through the soil, bloomed, and went by, as did the wild hyacinth. Bleeding heart and lilacs began to boom, and though we never again spoke so plainly or so personally, we _did_ occasionally speak. Esme still rarely left her room, but she noticed when I entered every evening, bade me hello, and sometimes asked me to read. She seemed little changed: mildly friendly, but untrusting.

Edward, on the other hand, was changing. The long weeks of witnessing Esme's despair, _reliving_ it through her memories, was taking a horrible toll. When I got home every night, he fled the house for a few hours to seek solitude and a quiet mind. But unlike earlier, he did not return refreshed.

I entered the house one night in mid May, to find Edward with his face in his hands and his elbows on the keys of the piano. It wasn't like him to neglect the fragile ivories; things must be worse than usual. He looked up, his face wracked with grief. His eyes were black and angry, but when he turned to me, his expression seemed pleading. I was quickly by his side, my hand on his shoulder. This couldn't go on. I hadn't seen him this bad since he was a newborn. Actually, I wasn't sure I'd ever seen him like this.

_Edward? Perhaps you should spend a night or two in Chicago again. This… this is too hard on you._

He pursed his lips. His shoulders were tense and tight as he looked to the ceiling. I could hear her uneven breathing. If she was not crying, she was close, or recovering.

_We will be all right for a night or two. I have the weekend off. _He turned to me again, debating, and then he winced as she gave a soft groan upstairs. _Edward. _I cupped my hand behind his neck, as I used to when he first joined me, and had been in so much pain. I held him steady as he swayed under the weight of her thoughts. I wished I knew what to do for him. Esme's pain was torturing him. I could not bear to see them both like this.

Finally, he drew a deep breath and nodded, leaning back and scrubbing his face with his hand. "You're right. I'll go. I'll get some more music, and Esme some more clothes. She's made a mess of half her things," he laughed darkly. "I'll help you take her hunting first. She needs it. And you do, too. It's been ages since you fed, Carlisle."

_We're a right mess, all of us. I'll feed if it will make you feel more comfortable taking a few days off. I wish I didn't have to work. It doesn't seem worth it. Perhaps we should relocate somewhere isolated, where we can all just get through this year and I can be here to try to help her full time. Though if we go somewhere really remote, and there are no good roads for transporting the piano… _I couldn't even finish the thought. Edward's sanity was tenuous enough _with_ the piano.

He shook his head, unwilling to contemplate it either. "One day at a time, old man. Go get dressed for the hunt. I'll tell Esme, and we'll meet you down here in a few minutes.

Soon we were off, all three of us looking black-eyed and harrowed. Running helped though. Esme's riding pants allowed her to leap over logs and boulders with the grace of a gazelle, and it was difficult not to feel my own spirits lift slightly. Even she seemed to have a lighter burden when running.

There were many scents on the air. The larger game were out of hibernation, and we'd been enjoying the newfound variety in prey that spring allowed. We came upon some deer first. A large buck caught my eye, and I looked at Edward, who shook his head. He looked at Esme, nodding slightly, and then turned back to me, whispering quickly, "You take the buck if you want it, Carlisle. We're going after the cats."

I nodded absently, focusing on my prey as I saw them leave out of periphery vision. The buck was large, and went down with a satisfying thud as I pounced and sunk my teeth into his neck. Hot blood flowed down my throat, temporarily solving all my problems as my mind focused solely on this moment and the reprieve it afforded. Warm, red relief soothed my throat and at least some of my many thirsts. Until a cold, hard sound broke through…

"CARLISLE!" Edward's voice, distant and panicked. I dropped the half-drained buck and ran.

* * *

_AN: Chapter 2 of Intermezzo shows Esme and Carlisle's first meeting, which is alluded to in this chapter. The next two chapters of Intermezzo are drafted, and cover parts of Esme's marriage, which should help explain her reactions in Prelude._

_Prelude and Intermezzo have both been nominated for Sunflower awards, and Prelude is also up for a Shimmer award. Many, many thanks to the readers who nominated them. I can't tell you how gratifying it is to know you like the story that much.  
_

_As ever I look forward to hearing your thoughts. I can be found on Twitter at ATONAU. Please check out the lovely web playlist (see my profile if you don't want to use the website above) to hear Satie's haunting compositions…_


	23. Chapter 23

_AN. Thanks to my wonderful beta, Coleen561 and my writing partner StormDragonfly for their support, assistance, and insight. The lovely NixHaw has updated the GrooveShark playlist with this chapter's music (the URL is on my profile). Since FFn has disabled links, I'm not keeping the music on my profile anymore. _

_As we left off in Chapter 22: Warm, red relief soothed my throat and at least some of my many thirsts. Until a cold, hard sound broke through…_

_"CARLISLE!" Edward's voice, distant and panicked. I dropped the half-drained buck and ran._

* * *

Chapter 23

As I approached, the first thing I saw was Esme's horrified expression. She was sitting on the ground, her back against a tree, staring. Edward's expression matched hers: shocked, horrified, guilty. They were both traumatized, both reeling, and my heart clenched. My family… my beautiful boy and sweet Esme, both suffering. Whatever progress Esme had made in opening up to us would surely be dashed now. She would add this experience to the horrors she dwelt on every day. Her new nature — the nature I had thrust upon her when I changed her — had now officially increased her burden, and by virtue of his link to her mind, it had increased Edward's burden as well.

I looked down at a middle-aged man, dead, drained, and crumpled on the ground. I memorized his face. I would atone later.

"I'm sorry, Carlisle, everything happened so fast." Edward's trembling voice. "I swear I didn't smell him, and then the wind changed direction, and he was just there. I didn't even hear any thoughts until he was registering her, and by then it was too late. I was focused on Esme's thoughts, and the hunt, and… I don't know how I missed him. I shouldn't have missed him. She was already on him by the time I realized what was happening. I could have torn him away from her, but—"

I placed my hand on his shoulder to still him. That would have only made things worse. Had the man survived, he would have transformed, and we'd have two newborns. And Esme would have fought Edward for him, and either of them might have been hurt. This was awful, but it could have been much worse.

Besides, this wasn't Edward's cross to bear; it wasn't his fault. _I _should have been here. I should have realized that other hunters, human hunters, would be drawn to the new game in the spring woods, just as we were. I should have recognized that although she was doing very well, Esme was only a few months old. She still needed careful supervision, and I was her sire. This was my fault.

I looked at Edward, moving my hand to the back of his neck. I wanted him to meet my gaze, feel my affection and acceptance.

_Edward. Don't make this your burden._

He looked into my eyes for several moments before taking a deep breath and nodding.

_You know the consequences if we are discovered. We need to hide the evidence — destroy the evidence. Do you understand? _

He nodded.

_I need to help Esme, so I'd appreciate it if you'd—_

"I'll do it," he said quickly.

_Thank you. Take the body. Hide it where it will NEVER be found. _

He nodded again.

_Then come back here and destroy footprints, signs of struggle, signs of blood…anything that makes this part of the trail look different from anywhere else. _

He continued to nod as he listened.

_If there's a car, it needs to be moved; if there are signs of his hike—_

"I understand, Carlisle." He said softly.

I took a deep breath and squeezed his neck gently, bringing our brows together. He knew the severity of the situation. I could trust him to take care of the details. We'd discussed these steps repeatedly when he was first learning control.

_We'll get through this. Don't worry. I'll get Esme to safety and try to assess her condition. She looks terrible._ I turned back to her. She was still staring at the face of the man. Her mouth formed a silent "no" over and over. I heard Edward's breath hitch, and turned back to him, forcing his gaze back to mine. _We WILL get through this, _I thought fiercely, and Edward's eyes went wide. _I will not allow this to tear us apart. We will get through this, and we will endure. _

He swallowed thickly and nodded. He pulled away, giving Esme one last look and then took the body and blurred up the trail, as I knelt in front of Esme.

She seemed unaware of my presence… almost catatonic. I tried speaking softly.

"Esme, we need to go. It's not safe for you to be here."

No movement. Here eyes were still glued to the empty space where the body had been. I tried again. "Esme, let's get you home. There's nothing more we can do here, and it's not safe." Still nothing. "Esme?" I reached up to brush her hair out of her eyes and she flinched away from me, crawling backwards into the tree, and then curling into a ball. I froze and stared. She was frightened of me?

"Esme?" I asked as gently as I could, scooting toward her slowly, making myself as non-threatening as possible. I refused to allow myself to consider what might be going through her mind. We'd sort it out when she was safe. "Can you get up? We need to go."

"Leave me." The sound of her voice was muffled; her face was hidden from me, but I could hear the pain. She was slowly shaking her head.

I so wanted to comfort her; to tell her that I couldn't possibly leave her, even if I thought it was what she truly wanted. But this was not the place.

"No, Esme. We need to go home. Can you get up?" She continued to shake her head. I wasn't sure if she was hearing me. "All right, that's all right, I'll carry you." I shifted my position very slowly, so I wouldn't startle her. I hated thinking she was scared of me. When I had one hand on her back I asked, "Can you put your arm around my neck?" Still nothing. I took her hand in mine and gently wrapped her arm around my neck, hoping she would hold on and steady herself as I lifted her. I put my arm under her knees and stood, carrying her easily. She held on to my neck and buried her face in my chest. I let out a long relieved breath. Good, at least that was a response.

I started running back to the house, the motion making it difficult for me to sense what she was doing. I thought I heard her breath hitch, but I couldn't be sure. I could feel her cling to me, and I held her closer, trying to reassure her. I'd never seen her like this, even in her first weeks with us.

Finally, we crested the ridge west of the house. I slowed to a walk and could feel her sobs. Her entire frame shook against mine, and her sounds vibrated though my chest. And while she felt light and frail in her grief, she also felt tangible in a way I'd rarely experienced. I felt grounded to her as her grief washed over me and mine welled up from the depths. Normally, when she was sad, I would view her through the veil of her curtains. I would hear her sobs muffled through the floor, or the wall, or the door, and be unsure of how to approach her to offer comfort. I would be unsure how to _speak_ to her to console her, much less touch or soothe her. It had happened once. I'd reached through the gossamer curtain once, and once only, and even that seemed almost to be a dream.

But I did not need to approach her now. She was here in my arms already. And I felt myself automatically tighten my embrace, automatically whisper wordless reassurances as I carried her toward the safety of our home.

Of course, safety was a relative term. We would be safe from outsiders, I hoped. I trusted we could not be traced back here from the scene. Dogs rarely tracked us. They knew better than to go after a stronger predator. No, what I had to fear now was not from the outside.

Her grief was overwhelming her, but my own was roiling as well. Not for the life lost, though I felt that deeply. It was the loss yet to come that was eating away at me as I carried her through the forest. The loss of the tiny sliver of trust that had formed between us. She had just started opening up to me, just started trusting me. And now I was sure it would die before it had any chance to flourish. She would never forgive me this. I had made her what she was. I had made her a vampire and then not protected her. And now she had done the unthinkable, and would be forced to live with the memory of it — the never fading, always perfect memory — for an eternity. It was one of the most awful things I'd done in my life, and I had no idea how she could absolve me of such negligence. I had lost her, just as I was starting to earn her confidence.

The house came into sight, and I slowed further, feeling compelled by the competing urges of rushing her to safety and keeping her in my arms just a little longer. I climbed the porch stairs, cradling her gently, shifting her as I opened the door and then holding her more tightly as I climbed more stairs. Esme was growing quiet, tense, almost as if she were bracing herself, or preparing for an attack. I deserved anything she would say or do. I entered her room and became still with indecision. I was loath to set her down, my arms enjoying the feel of her _far_ more than they should. Yet she had always retreated into herself when upset, and it seemed most respectful to honor that tendency.

We were both completely still for a moment. I looked at the bed, in the shadowed portion of the room with its sheltering drapes and soft isolation, and at the window seat, large, cushioned, and bathed in pink twilight. Finally, another sob shuddered through her, and I was decided. I couldn't lay her on the bed and let her cry alone… not when I was responsible for her suffering.

"Please don't cry, Esme." I couldn't help but rub my cheek against her hair, whether to comfort her or myself, I wasn't sure. "Please don't cry. I'm _so sorry_ I failed you." She froze in my arms.

I sat sideways on the window seat, twisting so that she could remain in my arms or shift herself to the cushion, however she was most comfortable. "I'm so sorry, Esme," I said, continuing to hold her. "I should have been there. I should not have fed before you; I don't know what I was thinking." She pulled away from my chest, wanting to look at me, but still apparently frightened. I tried to lower my face so I could meet her eyes, but she kept them from me.

"Aren't you… angry with me? Upset, disappointed?" she whispered, looking down at my chest, unwilling to meet my eyes.

"With you? Of course not, Esme. You behaved exactly as any normal four-month-old vampire would behave. You did nothing wrong, well nothing unexpected. You are only upset by your actions because I've imposed my own morality on you. Imposed it and then failed to protect you from your own instincts." I shook my head, disgusted with myself. I lifted Esme and set her down on the cushion, facing me. I had to see her eyes. She looked up furtively, and I saw her irises were already changing from the burnt umber of the last month to a deeper red. I swallowed heavily, seeing the proof of my mistake, and took her hands in mine, unwilling to lose all contact. "Esme, this was _my _failure, not yours. I should have protected you better." Her eyes were wide. I squeezed her hands. "I promise, I will be more careful in the future. I _won't_ fail you again." She looked down at our hands, and then back into my face, confusion marking her expression. Her irises were growing brighter red, right before my eyes. "Please don't be upset with yourself about this, Esme. It was a terrible accident, but one we will learn from. You've been doing so well."

I looked down at our hands, thankful that she wasn't pulling away, thankful that she was at least listening. "I understand that it will take a while for me to regain your trust, but I promise to do everything in my power to earn it. I will see you through this. This is just a setback. It's horrible, _tragic_, but not… not significant."

"Not significant?" she gasped. "How can you say that? Why are you being so kind to me? This is the worst thing I've ever done. I'm… I'm a terrible person," she sobbed softly.

"No," I said, more fiercely than I intended, looking her in the eye. She froze, wide eyed and tense, her breath sputtering through her sob. I cursed myself silently. I released her hands and slid my palms up to her shoulders, gently rubbing them up and down her arms, trying to calm us both. I bent down to catch her eyes again. "You are a _good_ person, who has had terrible things happen to her. Horrible things. And this is one of the worst. But _you_ are not terrible. You… Esme, you…" I sighed, unable to finish. I was now responsible for an experience that must eclipse her other horrors. Her soft sobs shook her gently, and I couldn't help myself. I pulled her to me, wrapping my arms gently around her shoulders, as I used to when Edward was distraught in his first year. She stiffened, but then eased against me, and I settled my cheek against the top of her head. It was awkward; we were sitting facing each other on the bench, knees between us, holding us separate. Only our shoulders and heads were joined, her left cheek pressed into my chest, my right pressed into her hair. I held her like that, listening to her sobs.

"Please, Esme. I'm so sorry," I whispered into auburn waves.

Her breathing shuddered, and after a moment I heard her gentle confession. "It tasted so good," came her faltering whimper.

I squeezed her tighter, regretting that she now had that knowledge, and would be burdened with it. "I know." I kissed the top of her head, and rubbed my cheek against it again to soothe her. "I know."

"And Edward. God, poor Edward had to experience all of it from inside my head… like torture. I'm sorry I do that to him. I'm always doing that to him."

"You've done no worse to Edward than I have," I whispered back.

She was still several seconds. "But I thought you'd never… never."

"I've never killed," I admitted, "but I've tasted, twice. Edward saw the memory of the bite that changed him. He's tasted his own blood, through my thoughts. I'm sure that's worse."

She was still for a while, but her breathing was stabilizing. "I was the other one," she whispered softly. It wasn't a question.

I squeezed her shoulders again, awash in that intimate memory, and grateful that Edward wasn't here to witness it.

"But Edward has never—"

"Only because I stopped him," I interrupted. "We fought. We… I had to hurt him to stop him, and it took us both a while to recover." Her hand, which had been settled in her lap, reached up to my arm and gave me a reassuring squeeze. Gratitude washed over me. "You aren't weak, Esme. This is to be expected. We just — no. _I_ just didn't protect you well enough. And for that I'm so, so very sorry."

She shuddered against me, and I felt her long exhale against my shirt. "I'm never going to get his face out of my head," she whimpered.

"Oh, Esme." I squeezed her tighter before I pulled away from her so I could see her face, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder, and brushing her hair from her face with the other. When she looked at me, the grief in her expression stabbed through me. I stroked the hair at her temple, still wanting to soothe her. "I will always remember his face, too. I will carry this, too." I paused as a fresh wave of grief washed over her face. "Esme," I whispered, wanting to disturb the air around us as little as possible, "mourn this man however you need to, but do not take the responsibility for his death. That lies squarely on my shoulders."

"And yet your eyes are pure gold, and mine… mine—"

"—are stained by _my_ lapse. Which is terribly unfair, but only temporary, and changes nothing. His life is on my soul. Let me feel it, Esme. Do not burden yourself with this guilt. It is not yours to bear."

Her breath shuddered again, and her hand brushed her cheeks, wiping away imagined tears. She looked out the widow, where darkness was gathering. She twisted her body toward the widow, tucking her legs up against her chest and placing her back to the room. I watched her profile as she looked out, wondering if she was really seeing the surrounding forest, or focused more internally. I was still twisted sideways on the seat, one knee between us, facing her as she looked out. I wasn't sure she was still aware I was here until she spoke.

"It's a moody sky tonight."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, looking out the window and seeing only dark trees and clouds.

Her head tilted as she craned to look out. "The sky is painted in shades of indigo and grey, and stained with a touch of blood red from the end of the sunset."

My breath hitched as I looked out again. I could see it all, just as she described it. The red matched the blood that had dried on her blouse. I looked back at her face and saw her lip quiver. It was as though she took the color of the clouds as an admonishment.

"But the red is fading," I reassured.

She looked at me, startled. "What?"

I tried my best to draw out her analogy, though the words felt heavy compared to the way they sounded coming from her. "Watch. The red will fade, and the grey will clear, too. And then dawn will break, and all will be washed in gold. The sky will forget its poor mood."

She watched my face, and I could not begin to name the emotions that crossed hers. Finally, she looked back out the window and whispered, "I hope you're right, Carlisle. But it's hard to believe now. I just see him and feel… I feel," she began sobbing again, and I reached out to wrap my arm around her shoulder, pulling her shoulder against my chest. I tried to soothe her in hushed tones, telling her it would pass, that she wasn't alone, that it wasn't her fault.

I lost track of time as we sat together, watching the sky fade to slate grey, and then clouds part, and finally the moon rise. She cried, and then calmed, and then cried again, but she never moved away. And finally, after what must have been hours, she wiped her cheeks again and sat up, gently pulling from my grip on her shoulder. She looked at me and while the pain was still apparent in her face, there were other emotions as well. Too many to name. I brushed her hair back.

"Now, what can I do for you, Esme? May I draw you a bath? Perhaps you'd feel better if you washed and changed into something…" I looked down at the red stains on her blouse.

"Clean," she finished, nodding and taking a shuddering breath. "A bath would be nice. Thank you."

I left her on the window seat, where she hugged her legs up to her chest and laid her head on her knees, looking out the window, her shoulders shaking slightly. I drew her bath, pouring in the lavender bubble bath I knew she preferred, and then went back into the bedroom. She was crying again, but it was not the hysterical sobs she'd suffered before. It was an almost serene ache.

"Esme, it's ready."

She looked up at me, still grief stricken, and yet there was something in her expression I didn't understand. A calm, sure light in her crimson eyes, and it gave me some comfort.

"Thank you."

She got up and walked toward the bathroom door, while I moved to the hall door.

"Carlisle?" she asked, just before I walked through the threshold.

I turned back, and saw her mouth open as if she was about to say something and then changed her mind. Finally, she asked, "Would you mind making me a cup of tea?"

"Of course not. I'll just get changed and then bring it up."

I quickly went to my room and stripped off my shirt, grabbing a towel before moving to my bathroom. I looked in the mirror, and saw no sign of blood, no sign of crimson eyes, but I knew they were there, branded on my psyche if nothing else. Esme may show the signs, but they were well and truly mine.

I was reaching for the bar of soap when I heard a creak from above. Esme and I were alone in the house, and I found myself intensely aware of every sound coming from upstairs. Her steps as she moved around the room, each brush through her hair, the gentle sound of her sobs, each item of clothing hitting the floor, the gentle splash of the water as she got in the tub. I turned on the tap and splashed noisily, shaking my head to clear it. I cleaned myself quickly and changed, and then moved to the kitchen.

Edward came through the back door as I was making the tea. He nodded grimly in greeting.

"It's done," he said quietly.

_Thank you, Edward._

I would ask for details later… such as why Edward smelled of fish… but for now Esme needed my attention. It felt ridiculous — preposterous — to pour boiling water over dead leaves after what had just happened, but I wanted to offer her normalcy, and for some reason this acrid concoction brought her comfort.

"Because of her grandmother," Edward whispered.

_What?_

"That's why she likes the smell of the tea. It reminds her of her grandmother's house. How is she?"

I looked at the ceiling. We could hear the gentle movement of water as it lapped against the edge of the tub, and even the faint sounds of the tiny bubbles popping as the foam covering the bath water settled. She, on the other hand, was completely still. Completely silent.

I shook my head bleakly, realizing that the small condolence I seemed to offer her earlier probably had little effect: a teaspoon of comfort in a sea of grief.

_How is she? She's… well, you'd know better than I would. She's not saying much. _

Edward closed his eyes, concentrating, and a puzzled expression crossed his face. I put the cup of tea on a tray and gave a silent prayer that the bubbles were still covering everything they were supposed to be as I turned to go upstairs.

"They are," Edward whispered, and I turned back to see his smirk. He was eying me curiously. "I'm going to play, after I wash. She wants to hear Bach."

Bach? She didn't even like Bach. _I _was the one who liked Bach.

He tilted his head, a small furrow in his brow. "Yes, isn't that interesting." He walked past me, "The tea's going cold, Carlisle."

I swallowed and followed him to the stairs.

She called me to enter before I'd even raised my hand to knock. She had pulled a small stool to the tub, and she was using it as a table. A book sat upon it — a collection of William Butler Yeats — and there was just enough room for a saucer. I set her tea down, avoiding looking at her, but noticing in the corner of my eye that she was low in the tub and the bubble bath had created a thick blanket of foam. I breathed out a relieved sigh and looked at her face. She was lying on her side with her cheek resting on the hard tub as though it were a pillow.

"Thank you, Carlisle."

I nodded and watched as she reached for the tea, bubbles clinging to her upper arm. She took the cup and held the rim to her lips, taking a deep breath of steam. The grief in her face eased slightly, and I felt the weight on my chest lighten infinitesimally.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Esme?"

She shook her head, taking in another ragged breath of steam, and closed her eyes. I watched her face another moment, and then tore my gaze away. I took the pile of soiled clothes and retreated. Downstairs, I found Edward, clean and making a fire. His own clothes were in a pile.

"You're going to burn them?"

"Just hers and mine. They have his smell on them, and no matter how much we wash them—"

"It's a good idea," I said.

He got the fire roaring and fed the clothing items in one at a time as I moved them into the hottest area of the fire with the poker.

_Where did you put him?_

He looked up at me, "He's part of a Lake Superior shipwreck now. He won't be found, and he'll soon be mere bones."

That explained the smell. _That was a good idea. And the scene?_

"Now smells like fish too. I left a few buried there to confuse the scents. There was surprisingly little blood on the ground or foliage, but I took it and moved it, scattering the evidence. I moved the car to the Canadian border and messed it up to make it look like there had been a robbery. Nothing should be traceable to us."

_That's good. That's very good. _He'd been at least as thorough as I would have been.

He stood and walked toward the piano, motioning for me to sit on the bench. He went to the bookshelves and retrieved some sheet music from the box marked _J.S. Bach._ He sat and spread the music out.

"Will you turn the pages for me?"

I raised an eyebrow. He'd never requested this of me before.

"I usually have time to memorize the music before I play for you, but I've never played this. She wants to hear it, and our record has a scratch that will drive me to distraction."

I huffed in mild amusement as I sat down next to him. The Goldenberg Variations started slowly, and we sat quietly together listening to the sweet and slightly melancholy music as I followed along, turning the page, just as the music became faster and more complex. And then it shifted dramatically: quick, complex coils of notes.

Upstairs I could hear Esme set down her tea cup and let out a long shuddering breath. Edward leaned closer as I turned the next page and whispered into my ear, "I got the name from the paperwork in the car. Lawrence Davidson."

I drew a quick breath and nodded. _I'll find out who he is when I get back into town._

"Actually," he whispered as his hands continued to dance across the keys, "I think I'll do it, next week perhaps. He'll be in people's thoughts by then, maybe. I'll get more than you'd be able to, and I won't raise suspicions like you would if you suddenly voiced an interest."

He was right. Though that meant…

_Are you calling off your trip to Chicago?_

"Yes, for now. I think it's better if I stay." He nodded his head, motioning to the page, and I quickly turned the sheet over.

Part of me was relieved to have him stay, but I was worried about him. He'd been in such a state, and that was before. Before he'd seen the death of an innocent through her mind, before he'd called for help, before he'd had to dispose of the body. Things must be worse now, both for him and in Esme's thoughts. And yet, as I watched his profile while he read the music, his face had only held concentration and a bit of sadness, not the pain of the last weeks.

"It's better," he whispered.

_It's better?_ I thought incredulously. How could it possibly be better? I'd failed her.

He shrugged. "It's different."

_So anything different is better?_

He smiled ruefully, looking at me sideways and then returning to his music.

"It's different," he whispered. "And I think better. Before, she was stuck in her memories, like… like a scratched record. I saw the same scenes over and over." His hands trembled faintly. "I'd tried to nudge her out of the rut, but nothing really worked. But this has given her a jolt, and now her thoughts are all over the place. Some of it's worse, but some of it..." He trailed off, sighing. "It's complicated. But I don't need to leave anymore. Not right now. And she's happy to have us both here."

That was the first good news I'd heard all night. We sat together, and I turned the music, thinking about what he'd said. It didn't make sense. I had added to her burden: the death of an innocent at her hands, and every proof and memory of it borne by her. How had I let it happen? I was lost in my miserable musings when I felt Edward's shoulder against mine, leaning into me, offering me solace. I gladly accepted his subtle comfort as he played and I followed along, my thoughts so scattered I was vaguely surprised that I still had enough presence of mind to read the music and turn the pages. When he'd finished the piece, he stacked the music up to put it away, and we both stood. I went to the library and heard him chuckle.

"Okay, Esme. From the top."

"Do you need my help again?" I asked.

"No, I have it memorized now. Esme's tea is cold, though."

Edward played the piece again, and then switched to Beethoven, sensing my darker mood. I delivered more tea, carefully keeping my eyes from the thinning blanket of foam. She did not speak, and I feared that she was again closing herself off. It would be understandable, of course, but it seemed to affect me even more strongly than it had before. My arms felt heavy and useless.

We somehow got through the weekend. Esme finally left her bath after ten hours, refilling the tub eight times in the process. It seemed she wanted to be warm, and clean, but the bath couldn't touch where she felt sullied and cold. We finally heard the water drain, and her steps move to the bedroom. We heard her dress, and clean the bath, and finally sink onto the bed and sigh.

My heart clenched as I thought of her retreating again into her solitude, and that this time she would likely sink deeper than she had before. I felt it was possible we'd never get her back. I delivered tea up to her, but she never reached through the gossamer curtains for it. I hoped she found solace in the soft aroma that drifted to her. I was discouraged that she no longer actively sought her own comfort; she no longer reacted at all. As I watched her through the sheers, my arms ached to gather her up again. I wanted to tear down those filmy drapes that separated us once more. I wanted to hold her, rock her, reassure her; I wanted to tell her, _convince_ her that she wasn't alone. But she had hidden herself. I couldn't force her to let me in.

Through it all Edward played for us, plucking our requests straight from our heads. If he was sad or troubled, he was hiding it well while he cared for us. I was fairly certain he was alternating, playing something to soothe Esme, and then me. Very few words were spoken for days.

I regretted that he had to comfort us both. I should not need it. I did not _deserve_ it. To that thought, he simply rolled his eyes.

_I'm serious, Edward. Please her; don't worry about me. My failure has caused her pain, and the best way to soothe me is to comfort her. _

"You realize how hypocritical that is, don't you?" he asked as he continued to play, and I heard Esme hold her breath upstairs. "Esme and I were the ones who were there. If she and I are deserving of forgiveness and love, surely you are, too."

I stared at him blankly, and he shifted into Clementi. Another of my favorites. I sighed.

_I want you to please _her_, Edward. Don't worry about appeasing me._

"What makes you think I'm not playing exactly what she's asked for?"

I rubbed my hand over my face, trying to decide why Edward was being difficult, and realized that the dawn was breaking for the third time since the accident. "I need to get ready to go to the hospital," I said, getting up. I did not want to go, but I couldn't upset our cover just as something suspicious had happened. Someone would be bound to notice, and that could only lead to trouble.

The workday dragged. We were not busy, and my colleagues were actively complaining about the administration, which was nothing I could get excited about. The death had given me a perspective that didn't allow trivial concerns such as shift length or nurse shortages to really register in my mind. And then in the mid-afternoon, the gossip about Mr. Davidson's disappearance began. Without really trying, I learned that he had a wife — well, a widow — and a child. They lived in a neighborhood near the lake.

I had, of course, been witness to many deaths. I'd been responsible for them; countless times my medical knowledge was not enough to save a patient. But in those cases, I took comfort in knowing that no other doctor I knew would have likely done better, and most would have done worse. Those deaths were sad, but did not weigh on my soul.

I'd also killed several of my own kind, but that was always in self-defense. Those deaths, also, did not weigh on me.

This death was different. By changing Edward and Esme I'd changed their fates, as well as my own. I'd taken an active role in changing the world in a potentially violent way. Vampires inherently had destructive drives: drives that _I_ had, for the most part, mastered. However, when I changed my companions, I knew there was a risk that I would not be able to train them effectively or control them. And now I felt the truth of it. While we'd all acted with good intentions, a terrible mistake had occurred. This death was a direct result of my choices. They had been deliberate, and though I'd never intended for Lawrence Davidson to die, my choices had caused it. It was a heady and disturbing responsibility.

When I returned home, both Edward and Esme were agitated.

_Did something happen?_ I asked Edward, who was softly playing a Chopin ballad. He shook his head.

Esme was pacing. Not like she did in the early days, when she walked her room like a frantic caged beast. This pacing was less urgent. More like she was thinking, trying to understand something. I greeted them both and went to my room to hang the shirts I'd brought home from the laundry. I was still washing and changing at the hospital before coming home, and sending my wash to the laundry in town once a week. I was nearly finished putting everything away when Edward's voice broke through the music.

"You don't know that, Esme."

I froze as the music continued, and then he added. "I'm not. I'm not assuming anything. _You're_ the one assuming that he was good, well loved, relied upon by his family. But you know perfectly well that not all men are good. It's just as possible that you have spared his family his mistreatment and given them a fresh start…"

There was another pause as I closed the wardrobe, and then heard his exasperated tone. "No, I don't know, but neither do you, and there's no point in making yourself feel worse by assuming he was a saint. He probably wasn't… No, of course I'm not saying he deserved to die. I'm just saying you don't know the real consequences of his death, and they might not all be bad."

Edward's fingers faltered slightly on the keys.

I went into the music room, wondering whether I should break up their fight. Edward's hands were still playing lightly, but his face was showing strain. I assumed that Esme was silently arguing with him. He gave me a small nod.

After watching him wince and mutter, "You're right, I don't know what that's like," I decided to intervene.

"Esme, is there anything I can do for you?" I would normally ask her to hunt, but the human blood satisfied us longer. She was likely not thirsty. The inquiry seemed to interrupt both their trains of thought. Edward's expression eased, and I heard Esme's steps pause before the gentle "No, thank you" could be heard.

I retreated to my study, but there was little peace to be found. Esme's pacing renewed, and though they were no longer arguing verbally, there was a tension in the house that stemmed from Esme and Edward's disagreement. And I understood it. Everything Edward said was true, and yet none of it really mattered. My mind was caught in a loop similar to Esme's: wondering what sort of man I was responsible for killing, who relied on him, what the ripple effects of his death would be. Esme and I were both taking the incident to heart, and it was weighing heavily on us. Though I sat in my leather chair, my heart and mind were as restless as Esme's feet.

I was worried about many things. How this would affect my own mental health, to start with. I did not want to second-guess my decisions to change either Edward or Esme — and I didn't — but being confronted with this very real consequence was undermining my as-yet-unfaltering confidence in both decisions. I was even more worried about the effect on Esme: I had changed her to try to ease her pain, and this was not accomplishing that goal. I worried about the effect it would have on Edward as he relived the experience through her mind, and all our heartbreak over it. But most of all, I worried about our cohesion, the effect it might have on the bonds between the three of us. Edward's and my bond was strong, I was sure, but our bonds with Esme were new and I felt insecure about them. The incident had already caused strain between Esme and Edward, and they had been extremely close since her change. I had no idea how this death had changed her feelings toward Edward and me, whether she still felt safe with us, and just how badly she resented me now for changing her and making her into a creature able to kill in a flash.

Two hours later I had reached no clarity, and felt lonely and isolated in the confines of my study. I returned to the library, bringing Spenser's _Faerie Queene_ with me. Edward had given up playing and was listening to Vivaldi on the phonograph, seated sideways in one of the armchairs with a leg swinging over the armrest. He was reading an Italian history book sent by Eleazar. He nodded and smiled at me as I entered, obviously pleased I'd come out of hiding, and I settled in the chair next to him after stoking the fire.

Esme's shoes were surely as worn as the slippers of the dancing princesses of lore. Her pacing had been constant and unending, and was now metered to The Four Seasons. And so we continued through many sides of the records. Halfway through Winter, Esme did a curious thing: she came downstairs of her own volition, something that hadn't happened for weeks. She came to stand in front of me, and Edward sat up straight and closed his book. I felt surprise and nervousness as she stood silently for a moment and then took a deep breath.

"Carlisle, the money you've given me… is it truly mine to spend however I like?"

_Oh God, she's leaving_. My first panicked thoughts rose through me like a tidal surge, and I was mute for a second until I felt Edward's hand on my shoulder. I looked over to see him leaning toward me slightly, offering support; his face conveyed no concern.

"Of course," I answered, looking back at Esme. "It was meant to give you peace of mind, that if you needed to leave at anytime, you'd have some means to support yourself. It is yours to spend as you wish."

She blew out a relieved sigh, and sadness pierced me.

"I want to pay restitution."

"To his wife?" I asked, and she flinched.

"Yes. If he had been supporting a family, I'd hate for them to now be wondering how they were going to survive, where their meals will come from, how they will afford a house. I know what that's like."

"Esme, no," I started, and her face grew angry. "It's a good idea," I said quickly, trying to fend off her ire, "but _I'll_ do it. The ultimate responsibility is mine."

Her face softened somewhat, but she still looked determined, and I was reminded of how glorious she was in her first month when she was angry. "_My_ teeth dug into him, Carlisle," she said, shuddering. "I should feel some consequence."

I began to protest again, but then remembered my experience with Edward. What was it about my newborns that made them want to punish themselves for things that were clearly not their fault? Had I been the same way? I knew better this time than to argue too much.

"We'll share the financial burden, then, if it will make you feel better. But, Esme, you can't just give a sum like that to a stranger. Questions will arise that we can't allow." She began to protest again, but I held my hand up. "There are ways of doing it that will appear natural and will not be traceable to us," I said, rubbing my forehead as I thought.

"I don't understand," she finally said.

"Oh, well, I'll create a long-lost relative that she's never met, who will have her listed as his sole heir, and then the restitution sum we agree to will become the "inheritance." It won't be hard; I can draw up the papers tonight and send them to my banker with instructions tomorrow."

"You can… create… people?"

"Only on paper," I said, and Edward chuckled.

"Carlisle mostly just recreates himself over and over. Each time he moves, he needs to reset his age. You'll be shocked to know he's very competent at forgery of all kinds."

_Edward, I'm not sure that's helpful. _ I scolded gently, but then I caught the smallest hint of humor in Esme's eyes, and simply nodded in affirmation.

"So, creating a great uncle would not be difficult?"

"Well, no, but it would probably be better to use a less direct lineage. She probably knows if her grandparents had siblings, but a third cousin once removed… it would be plausible not to know such a relative, yet have them be aware of her. We can try, at least. We need to get some information."

"I'll go into town and lurk in the shadows near her house for a while and see what I can find out," Edward said, looking happy to have something constructive and active to do. "I'll be back several hours before you need to go to the hospital, Carlisle, in case you need to hunt."

And he was gone.

"Why don't we go to the attic and dig out the paperwork we'll need," I said, standing and motioning toward the stairs.

"Do you really think this can work?"

"Oh, yes. There are curious holes in the system, and much of the necessary paperwork can be acquired through the mail or simply forged. I have a well paid business manager who can notarize anything we need, and you'd be surprised how little scrutiny paperwork is subjected to if it comes from a lawyer and an annuity is being offered. No one will worry if it looks too good to be true. The trickiest part will be creating the family connection, and Edward should be able to help us make that credible.

We spent several hours in the attic, and Esme marveled at my collection of birth certificates.

"You always use your real name," she said, comparing two that were one hundred years apart.

"Yes, though as record-keeping becomes better, I may have to start adopting new last names. For some reason, I feel I'd have a hard time answering to another first name.

"So, when I'm ready to reenter society…"

"We'll move somewhere you won't be recognized, and reset all our clocks, with new names, if you wish. Though I admit I hope you keep Esme. It suits you." I fell silent as I realized what I'd just admitted. "Assuming you want to stay with us, of course. And whether you do or not… well, I'm happy to take care of the paperwork, but if you'd rather learn yourself, I'll teach you. It's not complicated, but—"

"Carlisle," she interrupted, with just a hint of a smile. "I _would_ like to learn. I…" she sighed. "After my… experiences, I have a strong drive to be in control of my destiny, and not be dependent on other people's knowledge or power. But just because I ask you to teach me, doesn't mean I intend to leave."

Though it was only the barest of hints, she was alluding to her past openly for the very first time, and without my prying. And more than that, she was giving me a glimpse of her mind: why she reacts to things the way she does. She wanted me to understand her, and I was warmed greatly by the prospect. I couldn't hide my smile as I said, "Why don't you pull up that chair, and I can take you through the basics."

Together we created a name, a history… everything, and frankly more than we needed… everything except a city and a relationship to the widow. We had even agreed on a sum. Esme had a vast and detailed knowledge of the price of necessities, and I understood from the vague things she told me that she'd had to save for a great deal of time before she could break away on her own. As a result, she had a keen mind for finance.

As I made the calculations of what would be needed, based on her information and prevailing interest rates, she sighed and looked at me earnestly.

"I know it doesn't really make up for anything. It doesn't restore her husband to her."

"No," I said carefully, "but it lessens the blow. Or at least, it stops the potential cascade of tragedy that would ensue if she lost her home and income as well as her husband. So much of humanity lives on that cusp between comfort and destitution. Often one misstep leads to a precipitous downfall. You are providing protection from that fall."

"I know that cusp," she said softly. "I would hate to be responsible for causing anyone to slide into the depths below." She looked down at her hands, guilt washing over her expression.

"Hey, now, Esme. This is a good thing you're doing. You're protecting her from the cruelty of circumstance."

"A circumstance that I created. She wouldn't need protection if it weren't for me."

I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but I no longer felt it would be welcome. "We can only move forward, Esme. Each of us is imperfect, and we can only do our best with the circumstances we find ourselves in, including those we create. It was a tragic mistake, but with this we will staunch the potential for more damage to their lives."

She nodded. "I just don't want her to feel trapped, or hopeless." It was clear Esme was familiar with both emotions, though whether it was from before or after she fled, I couldn't be sure. I wouldn't press by asking questions.

"She won't," I reassured. "With this, she may never be rich, but she won't be hopeless." Esme gave me a weak smile, but it still warmed me. It felt like a rare indulgence that she was speaking to me so openly — guarded as she still was — almost like a friend. I knew in my heart she would likely revert to her reclusive ways, but I was savoring the pleasure of her company as we gently supported each other through this troubling time.

A few hours later, Edward returned with the information we needed to finish the paperwork. Annemarie, as she was called, was decidedly alone in the world. Her two siblings had both died in the last few years: the sister of the flu, the brother in trenches in France. Her mother had died in childbirth, and her father had passed just before the start of the Great War. Their house was still heavily mortgaged, and she was quite worried about how she would manage to raise her son.

All of this, Edward had gleaned from her mind as she fretted into the wee hours of the morn. But she had never thought of her original home, and so Edward had taken it upon himself to enter the house after she'd fallen asleep and look through her photos and newspaper clippings. I couldn't condone such actions, but it served a useful function. We now knew her family had been from Virginia, and we made our distant cousin from there, too. By morning, everything was ready, and I sent the package of documents and instructions to Mr. Jackson on my way to the hospital. I trusted him to manage things in a thorough and discreet manner.

Esme spent the next several days in her room, pacing. I missed her tentative smiles, but was thankful for Edward's company. On the fourth day after I sent the package, I heard the first stirrings of rumors around the hospital. Widow Davidson had been contacted by a lawyer.

Edward was running toward town before I'd even made it through the front door of the house. Esme stayed in her room, but the pacing stopped, and I heard the creak of her bed as she settled herself upon it. I settled in the leather chair in the library, and together, alone, we waited.

An hour later Edward was back in the library, all smiles and happy intelligence. Everything had worked smoothly: the bank saw no issues, and the mortgage was being settled. Annemarie was very surprised and _very_ relieved, Edward reported.

Edward and I celebrated, but Esme remained in her room. I looked to the stairs as Edward placed Bach's French Suites on the gramophone, and I considered going up to check on her. She was still silent on the bed, and I didn't understand. She should be pleased. I was starting to fear that this effort had backfired, and we were losing her again.

Edward shook his head. "Give her time," he mouthed.

We played chess as the sun set and the moon rose. Eventually we heard Esme stirring: bathing, dressing, moving about her room. Edward took my bishop as we heard her door open. And then she was in the library, standing next to Edward's chair, looking at the board. And she was stunning. She had put on a dress — not just a dress — she often wore practical, sturdy dresses. This one was different: delicate, flowing, the pale pink of dawn. Flattering. Her arms were bare below short filmy sleeves. Above her shoulders, gentle curls framed her face. She was spring personified, all pale blush and wisps of movement and curved promise.

"Good to see you downstairs, Esme," Edward said, glancing at me for a fraction of a second and then studying the board intently. "Have you ever played chess before?"

She shook her head. She seemed nervous, and I wanted her to feel at ease.

"You heard the good news?" I asked.

She smiled and nodded. "Thank you. It's a relief."

"Can we get you anything, Esme? Some tea?" Edward asked as he moved his knight.

"No, thank you. I…" She looked up and met my gaze. "I was hoping I could join you."

I couldn't help the smile that swelled from deep within me. "Of course! Sit beside me, and we'll teach you the game. You and I can play against Edward."

"Because he needs all the help he can get," Edward added. "Check."

"I don't need help. I just wanted her to have the thrill of winning against you," I said, taking his knight.

Edward frowned, and then moved a rook. "Such confident speech from someone with only seven pieces still on the board."

"All part of my strategy," I said, moving my queen. "Check."

"Crap."

"Language, Edward," said Esme.

Edward's eyes nearly bugged out as he muttered a facetious, "Yes, Mom."

Esme shook her head smiling at him as he made his move. And I had him.

"Better luck next time, Edward." He looked up at me, confused until I moved my remaining bishop. "Check-mate."

He gawked at the board for a moment, and then his usual lament came forth: "How do you ever beat me? I should be able to see your strategy. You should never beat me."

"And yet…" I gave my usual reply, nodding at the board.

And Esme laughed. It was soft and not very confident, but it was genuine and free of the darkness that had surrounded her since her change. I cherished it deeply. For the first time that I could remember since finding her in the morgue, she did not seem lost. And, at least for the moment, I did not fear losing her.

_AN. Oh, I think the boys might be in for some interesting times now that Esme has rounded a corner. Thank you so much for reading. Esme's fascination with tea is also addressed in Chapter 5 of Intermezzo. As usual, I can be found on Twitter (ATONAU) and would love to hear your thoughts. _


	24. Chapter 24

August 1921

EPOV

I glanced at the clock. Four a.m. Carlisle would be home within the hour. He'd switched to the night shift in the spring. During Esme's depression, nights had been the worst for her, and Carlisle's presence after the sun set had been critical. Spring came and days lengthened, and Carlisle needed the cover of night to work at the hospital, but it was just as well. Now that Esme was better, she preferred having him home during the days, when she could enjoy the warmth of the sun and bright colors of the Wisconsin summer with him.

Not that she admitted that.

I went into the library to put away my book. Carlisle had been very busy in here the last several months. He'd built three new bookcases for Esme and had brought home a chest of map drawers for her to store her art in — large, flat, locking drawers, and she kept the key around her neck. He'd brought her all manner of art supplies: an easel that she could take outside, as well as a smaller table easel for use in the house, thick paper, sketch pads, paints, pastels, and charcoals. He encouraged her to experiment. He was spoiling her, just as he had me, but instead of a piano and sheet music and gramophone records, he bought her art supplies and art history books and magazines on architecture. She read them at night, usually in the first half of the night, when Carlisle's absence was most noticeable. The two of us lit a fire and sat in the library — Esme generally in Carlisle's chair, though we never spoke of that — and then we read quietly for hours. The comfortable silence was only occasionally interrupted when one of us wanted to share something we'd read. Esme had a passion for architecture, and the back issues of Architectural Record were among her favorite reading materials. Carlisle combed the local bookstores to find them, and when he'd exhausted those sources, I'd searched bookstores in Chicago.

She already had her favorites — buildings she insisted on seeing once she was safe to be around humans. It would be a reward. Frank Lloyd Wright, with his straight lines and wood and glass, similar in some respects to our lodge but more extreme and more beautiful in its simplicity. There were Frank Lloyd Wright houses in Chicago she wanted to see when we moved.

Visiting the works of her _other_ favorite architect would be more problematic.

Antoni Gaudi was almost the opposite of Wright; he didn't use a straight line at all if he could help it. All his shapes were based on organic geometry: the hyperbolic paraboloid, the hyperboloid, the helicoid and the cone. In La Sagrada Familia, his famous basilica, the columns looked like trees and the spires like spiral seashells. Esme loved it. She poured over the drawings and photos of the models and the partially-constructed façade. She would lie on the floor and look at the ceiling and imagine those pillars, branching and weaving overhead, and the vision would merge with memories of lying under trees at her childhood home. She was intrigued by the idea of architecture mimicking and drawing from nature. She wanted to see it so badly: see with her own eyes the colors that were described, but not captured, in the black-and-white pictures in her Architectural Records. Of course, a trip to Barcelona, Spain wasn't in our immediate plans. That didn't keep Carlisle from scheming, though. Vampires live a long time, and while he refused to consciously think beyond her first year of training, tapping down any hopes or expectations that she would stay like I had, hope flickered anyway. And when it did, images of European cities skirted fleetingly across his mind, like ghosts or wishes. If those ideas ever took a more solid form, it wasn't in my presence.

During the second half of the night, Esme usually drew or painted, sometimes outside and sometimes in the kitchen, which had become her studio. The tile floor and sink were convenient for clean up. I was never allowed in when she worked, which was silly, since I could see everything she painted through her mind anyway. I was perfectly aware of why she always ran out of yellow and gold paints first. I knew why she kept the vast majority of her drawings under lock and key, and why all oil paintings dried up in her private bathroom, away from the relatively public space of the kitchen.

She was sketching tonight, experimenting with pastels and watching the world as the colors changed, brightened, and warmed in anticipation of the sun.

I heard the car coming up the road, and noticed Esme's thoughts become wistful. I sat at the piano and began to welcome him home with a bit of Mozart. In a few moments he was entering, setting down his case and jacket, and thanking me mentally.

_Where's Esme?_

"Outside," I answered, _in a tree, where she can watch you come home._

He looked startled. _Without you? Is that safe?_ He walked over to the piano, watching my hands as I played, remembering. It was our tradition.

I tapped my temple, indicating that I was monitoring her.

_What is she doing? Painting?_

I kept playing, considering how to answer. "Waiting for the light, and trying to decide if the wall between the library and the entry is load-bearing." This wasn't technically true at the moment, but she had been wondering that earlier, circling the house looking for clues. She wouldn't appreciate me sharing what she was thinking about at the moment.

"Why?"

"She wants to move it. Something to do with 'using the space more efficiently considering our lifestyle'."

"What? She doesn't like our home?"

I paused, and then continued playing more softly. "The library is overfull. There's no more space for new bookcases, but you keep buying us books." I looked up at him and smiled. "The entry is large and empty. She wants to know if she can safely move the wall. Give us more space in the room we all like best."

_She's thinking like an architect._

I shrugged, "If so, it's your fault. All those magazines."

He laughed, looking out into the entry hall from where he stood by the piano, thinking of the mess it would be to move that wall.

"I don't think she's seriously considering it. She just likes the puzzle. How would she make it work? How would it mess with the symmetry of the entry? Oh, and she's going to start asking you for text books on math and engineering."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Gaudi's influence."

He looked back at the wall. He'd really do anything she asked of him, but he was hoping that she wouldn't ask this. I snorted.

"How's the hospital?"

He turned back to me, and his thoughts darkened. "Getting worse." In a moment I saw the juxtaposition of multiple scenes where the administrator had interfered with treatments, refused necessary medications for patients, sent doctors home when there were patients waiting. "We're doctors; we should be able to make decisions for our patients." The frustration was thick in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Carlisle."

He shrugged. He didn't like bringing work home with him. Not anymore. Not now that he had Esme and me to come home to. Not when Esme was still in training, still needing him to be strong and focused on her needs. He saw her as delicate and beautiful, almost fragile. It was understandable, after seeing her so wretched for so long. Every fresh joy was a gift: every smile, every gleam in her eye. She seemed to be rediscovering the world and her passion for it, almost like a child. That's how it appeared from the outside. And he compared her to the young woman he'd met in 1911, pleased with how her vibrancy had returned, noting how it was now tempered with a maturity that was beguiling and attractive. He was at times mesmerized, though he shook it off, scolding himself for not being a proper sire, a proper teacher.

Of course, he was completely wrong. I mean, Esme _was_ beautiful, but she was hardly fragile. After seeing everything she'd been through, and then seeing her come out of it, not bitter, no longer obsessed with darkness, I'd decided that Esme was actually the strongest person I'd ever known. Stronger than me. I was still haunted by what I'd seen and experienced vicariously. I wanted retribution for the trauma I'd suffered. I still felt pain in body parts _I_ didn't even actually have, like an ache in a ghost limb of an amputee soldier. I felt the violation at the oddest times. A memory would cross Esme's mind, like a flickering, dark shadow. _She_ would immediately focus on something bright: sitting on the sofa beside Carlisle looking at travel books with pictures of ancient buildings he'd seen, or sitting on the piano bench while I played her ragtime. _I_, on the other hand,would follow the memory to its conclusion… I'd seen them all enough times during her depression to have them indelibly burned into my memory. I'd be unable to shake it off. I'd grow more and more angry, until all I could think was that it wasn't right. It wasn't right that _our_ Esme had suffered through that nightmare, and _he_ was free, still an upstanding citizen, still free to do it to someone else, if the fancy struck him.

_Edward?_

I stilled myself, focusing on my surroundings. I was striking the keys too forcefully, and concern was welling in Carlisle. I beat back the anger, smiled at him unconvincingly, and began playing again. "You'd better go shower," I said before he could question me, "Esme will be back after sunrise. She's sketching it — well, the light on the house — but then she's anxious to come inside." He was torn, eager to see her, but worried about me. After a moment, my softer playing and expression appeased him, and he set out to bathe and ready himself to begin their dance.

And a dance it was, though neither of them acknowledged it.

Now that Esme was no longer distrustful of Carlisle — now that he'd shown himself to be the patient, kind, honest man she'd always imagined him to be — she found herself oddly shy around him. This annoyed her. She told herself that she wasn't some blushing sixteen-year-old maiden, and indeed, hadn't even acted shy around Carlisle when she _had_ been. She fought it, trying to speak comfortably, but there was little comfort in their relationship now. Joy, yes. Agitation, yes. Comfort… well, time would tell.

The room grew gradually brighter, and I could see the dust motes vibrating as my music caused the air to tremble and swell. I heard Esme enter through her window. She often did this, changing out of her "art clothes" and into something more feminine and less paint-splattered before risking a meeting with Carlisle. I switched to Bach, acknowledging her return, and heard her silent _thanks_ as she washed the smudges of pastels from her arms.

Carlisle entered the library, freshly scrubbed and no longer smelling of blood or the hospital's antiseptic.

"Care for a game of chess, Edward?"

"No, thank you. Esme needs practice, though. Maybe she'll play against you."

He smiled, nodding. He was enjoying my playing, but was in one of those moods where he wanted us all together. He didn't want to be in the library with Esme while I lingered in the music room. In part, he wanted the comfort that a third party brought. Esme and I spent so much time together that conversation was easy between us, and easier between the two of them if I were present. But it wasn't just that. When things at the hospital were bad, he almost craved the sense of belonging that the three of us all being in the same room afforded. This was new, and he wasn't wholly aware of it. If he were, he'd probably resist asking for it, seeing it as a weakness. He asked for so little, though, I was often inclined to give what he wanted, whether he actually requested it or not.

"Why don't you put something on the gramophone, and I'll come sit and read while you two play."

"Chopin?"

I preferred to _play_ Chopin, not merely listen to it. "Beethoven?" I countered.

"Esme says it makes her anxious. Tchaikovsky?"

I tilted my head, considering. "Romeo and Juliet?"

He glared. He liked the music, but not the implications. "The Nutcracker?"

I winced. Too… sweet. "Fifth Symphony?"

_Too blustery._

I rolled my eyes. A little drama was good, after all. "The Seasons?" I tried again.

"Done." He gave me an affectionate grin and retreated to the library.

Our record featured a nice string arrangement, which I couldn't capture on the piano anyway. Some of The Seasons I could play well enough, but others really required the orchestra. I finished the Bach and closed the key guard, entering the library as the first notes wafted from the gramophone's bell. Carlisle was setting up the board, hopeful that Esme would play. I knew she was already reviewing what I'd taught her last night. She was determined to not lose too quickly.

I retrieved my book — a novel written in Italian that Eleazar had sent for my birthday — and settled on the sofa, just getting comfortable, when I heard his breath hitch. Esme had entered the room. He stood, and she gave him a smile in greeting as she sat in front of the chessboard, accepting his offer. His mind began stumbling for a greeting as he noticed the details of her appearance.

"How was your favorite tree, Esme?" I asked, lounging sideways on the sofa.

"Still the perfect easel, thank you for asking, Edward." She gave me a quick smirk and silently warned me to behave. "And how was your night, Carlisle?" she asked, making her opening move with her third pawn.

"Oh, nothing very remarkable," he answered with a smile, countering her move, and noting to himself that the bronze dress she wore matched the color of her eyes precisely. It wouldn't for long. Her eyes were fading to gold rapidly, something she monitored daily in the mirror and took great pride in. She hoped he noticed — as if he didn't constantly see every detail about her. It was curious, actually, seeing them through each other's eyes. I knew each of them better than they knew each other, being tied, as I was, to their minds. But I didn't always _see_ things. And sometimes they saw details in each other before I saw them in their thoughts. New things. Things they wanted hidden from each other, or from me. But they couldn't hide much from each other; they were each so constantly aware of the other.

"Edward told me that he once dragged you to a show of Impressionist painters in Chicago, but said he wouldn't tell the tale until you came home."

"Yes, he did." Carlisle smiled at me, thankful that I had waited to tell this story. "It was our first year here, but we went frequently back to Chicago to hear music, and there was an exhibition. I'd never really understood the appeal of impressionism, but Edward insisted that he'd loved the Monets he'd seen when his mother was alive, and that the use of color would astound me."

"I was sorely disappointed when we got to the museum, " I said.

Esme looked up from the board. "Why?"

"There were just dots. I couldn't see the pictures anymore. Becoming a vampire had improved my vision to the point that I could no longer see the forest for the trees, as it were. It was like I could see every detail of the painting's surface, but couldn't delve beyond it. No matter how far back I stood, I could only focus on each individual color, the chaos of strokes, not the picture they made. But I could _remember_ the picture they made; I just couldn't see it anymore."

"He was furious at me," Carlisle added.

"At you?" Esme asked, genuinely perplexed.

"I'd changed him, and taken away something he loved."

Esme was truly aghast, and I felt a twinge of self-consciousness. I didn't like it when she saw how selfish and bratty I could be. Now that I was looking after Esme, I was much less… self-absorbed. Even Carlisle noticed I wasn't as moody as I used to be, though he claimed he never minded in the first place.

"But Carlisle had a brilliant idea," I said quickly, making it clear I was no longer angry at him. Esme seemed somewhat appeased. "We went back two days later. It was much better."

"What was his idea?"

Carlisle and I grinned at each other, trying to determine who should get to tell her. He quirked an eyebrow at me, giving me leave.

"He made us glasses," I said with a smirk.

"But don't glasses make your eyesight better?"

"Not these ones. He made our vision _worse,_ blurring everything until water lilies and cathedrals and sunflowers and ballerinas popped out of the canvases. And _Carlisle_ was like a little kid, running from canvas to canvas, putting on his glasses, gasping, studying, and then running to the next one. It was very undignified."

Carlisle chuckled. "It's true that I finally understood the appeal of the art form that day, and I had a lot of catching up to do."

We were all laughing now. Carlisle had an almost boyish look as the reveled in the memory of us dashing through the museum, and Esme was enthralled, trying to imagine our escapades before her arrival. She looked back and forth between the two of us, thinking about how happy she was to have us, thinking that _this _is how her marriage should have been: full of joy and support and laughter, and not… not… and if only she could have such a life, such a marriage. If only Carlisle… but she stopped herself abruptly, reminding herself that since she wasn't really dead, she _was_ still married. Married to _him_. The monster.

I sat up abruptly, looking at her, and Carlisle was startled out of his laughter.

"Edward? Are you all right?" he asked.

Esme's eyes grew wide as she realized the thought I must have heard, but I covered my reaction quickly.

"Fine… fine. I was just wondering where those glasses are now. Maybe we should show them to Esme. They might help her appreciate some of the pictures in her art books."

He looked at both of us, unconvinced. But he was a gentleman, and would never push for information if it would make Esme uncomfortable.

"They're in my study. I'll just go get them."

As soon as he left the room, Esme looked at me, pleading.

_Please don't say anything. I know I shouldn't be thinking about him like that. I know he thinks of me as a patient, or a child. I don't… want anything to change between the three of us._

That was patently untrue.

_Nothing needs to change, ever._

I sighed, scrubbing my hand over my face. "It's not that," I whispered. She thought I was upset that she had romantic thoughts about Carlisle? She'd only had a crush on him since she was 16, excepting those few months right after her change. Those thoughts hadn't been the revelation. That _Charles Evenson_ could still interfere with her happiness from nearly a thousand miles and a lifetime away was the revelation. But it was true, in a sense. Esme and Carlisle both had periodic, fleeting, subconscious thoughts of each other, of living as partners, of living as husband and wife. Both tried to bury these feelings, thinking it was premature… and it _was_… but I saw how Carlisle looked at Esme when she came down the stairs, and I'd seen that look on my father's face when he gazed at my mother. I could no longer draw the memory, but I knew it was the same expression.

They both deserved happiness. They didn't deserve impediments.

"Here they are," Carlisle said, walking back into the library, wearing a pair of gold-wire rimmed glasses and carrying the other in his hand. Esme giggled when she saw him, bringing the lightness we'd lost back to the room. Carlisle held the other pair out to me.

"Oh no, I think those are Esme's now," I said, smiling at him. They would actually look good on him if they weren't so thick. As it was, though, he looked rather ridiculous.

"Oh dear," Esme said, placing the other pair on her face. "These really do blur things up."

"Yes, well, maybe we shouldn't wear them unless we're in the presence of a Degas or Van Gogh or Monet. I'm having to concentrate so that I don't walk into the furniture."

The chess game was forgotten as Esme pulled a large format book from her shelf and went to the color prints. The two of them looked through the paintings with glasses on and glasses off, laughing and remarking at the differences. I picked my book up again, feeling more and more like a chaperone, but not really minding much. I had things to think about.

We spent the next several hours in the library. Eventually, Carlisle and Esme returned to their chess match. Vivaldi's violin concertos were playing, and they were both relaxed and happy. Carlisle's mind was focused on Esme as she amassed an impressive pile of his pieces by the board: her eyes, the curve of her lips as she smiled, the arc of her neck as she studied the board. He wondered if her hair was as soft as it looked. His gaze followed the curl at her shoulder down to the swell of her breast and the curve of her waist, amazed at how many shades of bronze and gold it took to paint her in his mind's eye: shadows and shimmering highlights.

"Carlisle," she asked, interrupting his reverie. He held himself still as he darted his eyes back to the board, vaguely surprised to find that it was dominated by white pieces.

"Are you sure that everything's okay at the hospital? Nothing is bothering you, or distracting you?"

He looked up at her, surprised. "No, I'm not thinking about the hospital, why?"

She looked up from the board, put her hand on her knight, and said, "Checkmate."

He stared at the board, replaying the last several moves in his mind, realizing the errors he'd made.

_Have I really been so distracted by the curve of Esme's neck that I didn't notice her knight and queen move into position? _He mused with wide eyes. _I actually lost at chess?_

I lifted my book in front of my face slowly, hoping he wouldn't see humor quirking on my face. I wasn't laughing _at _him, exactly. Well, yes I was. Oh damn, he noticed my shoulders shaking.

_It's not funny, Edward._

I bit my lips to keep my laughter from bubbling out, and heard his exasperated sigh.

"Quite right, Esme. Congratulations."

He sounded more magnanimous than he felt. He was actually rather irritated with himself, not for losing to Esme necessarily, but for not controlling his thoughts around me. That sobered me up.

"I guess maybe I'll go for a run," I said, standing and stretching as though I were just tired of lounging. Carlisle looked chagrinned. He didn't want to drive me away, he just felt awkward and exposed. I shrugged, hoping he'd see that we were okay, and I was sorry. "It's too early to hunt," I added, "but I'll be back before dusk so we can go out again before your shift, Carlisle."

I left the house before they really had a chance to comment. Carlisle wasn't sure whether the privacy was welcome or not. As embarrassed as he was to have me present for such thoughts, he was often awkward around her when they were alone, and he feared what may or may not be said between them. But Esme was giddy from her win and from the discovery of the art glasses, and wanted to share some things she'd read in Architectural Record. They'd be fine.

Now that I was alone, I didn't have to hide _my_ emotions either, and all the anger I felt earlier toward Charles Evenson rushed back. The torture he'd put Esme through had been awful. That I'd been subjected to it as well, and was having difficulty getting over it, was problematic, but I could have dealt with it eventually. But _this_, this was too much. Knowing that Esme saw him as an impediment to her finding happiness and stability was more than I could take. I tried to imagine what would happen. If Carlisle eventually asked her to marry him, and there seemed little doubt that he would if he ever truly noticed her affection, and we went to some large town, where they could marry without risk of Esme being recognized, _could_ some magistrate look up Esme Evenson, or even Esme Platt, and declare her unable to wed? Would that break their hearts?

I ran aimlessly and hard, to the boundary of our property and beyond. Reckless. The more I ran, the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. Every dark thing he'd ever done to her flooded back to my mind. Of course, Esme and Carlisle would eventually have their happiness. _We _lived forever…or nearly so. Evenson, on the other hand, was rough and bitter and human. Not destined for a long life, in my estimation. Esme would someday be a widow, and she and Carlisle would be free to wed legally, if they chose to. But why should they have to wait? Why should they have to wait for that pathetic cretin — that monster of a man — to die of natural causes when he was so fragile, so _mortal_, and it could all be…helped along? And helping him see the evil of his ways sounded very, very satisfying.

The trees thinned and I found myself on a rocky ledge. I stopped and looked to the east, over the forests and lake below, seeing the railroad tracks wind out into the distance, and I realized where I was. The very cliff Esme had thrown herself from. The very location where her life with Charles Evenson ended, and her life with us began. It should have been a clean break, but it wasn't quite. I could fix that.

Carlisle was a medical man, a healer. Even if he'd relived her abuse over and over as I had, even if he were _driven mad_ with the desire to kill Evenson, his morality would probably win out. And if it didn't, his guilt would taint the start of their life together. I, on the other hand, had wanted to be a soldier. I didn't have a problem killing for a noble cause. And Esme's happiness was as noble as it got, after all she'd been through. I could be Esme's soldier, fight her war for her so she never had to worry about facing that man again. Never again would her happiness be subject to his cruel whims. I could free her, for once and for all, from his influence. And maybe I could do some other good as well…

I tried to keep my thoughts rational, but the monster was coiling and writhing in the depths of my…well not soul, I was pretty sure I didn't have one of those anymore. I was firm though. I would not think of the blood. I was only going to lead him to death, not drink from him. _That_ would probably not be forgivable, though the beast within reveled in the thought of tearing him open. It would be so easy to give the monster the reins, just this once. Evenson was no innocent. He had inflicted horrors on Esme, and deserved horrors in return.

I would deal with that later. I'd have to find him first.

By the time I returned to the house, the sky was starting to take a pink glow. Carlisle and Esme were waiting for me, and we hunted immediately. Carlisle noticed the shift in my mood, and tried to apologize mentally for his embarrassment. He hadn't meant to make me feel unwelcome. It was almost funny how he took the blame for absolutely everything.

Esme was drinking a hundred yards or so away when I finally thought we had enough privacy for me to respond.

"It wasn't you, old man. Don't take everything so personally," I whispered.

His brow furrowed as he considered that. _Did Esme say something to you?_

I sighed. "When you leave tonight, I want to go as far as the road with you."

_We need to talk?_

I nodded.

_Okay._ Even mentally, I could hear the trepidation. _We'll talk._

Once Esme was safely home and preparing for her bath, and Carlisle was changed for work, we headed to the car. I got in the passenger's side and watched as he loaded his briefcase in the back next to his black medical bag. He climbed in the drivers seat, gave me a cautious smile, and started the car. We drove in silence until we were halfway to the main road, and I could tell from Esme's thoughts that she could no longer hear us.

"Carlisle, can you get some time off soon. Like a week? I want to go do some things."

He looked at me carefully, trying to decide what this was about.

"Esme needs some new clothes again, as well as new art books, and I need some new music. There are some other… things that I'd like to look for as well."

"Will you go to Chicago?"

"For at least part of the time. But I'm going to branch out too."

He paused, looking at me again. "Are you sure nothing is wrong? There's something… hard about you all of a sudden. I'm sorry if my thoughts annoy you. I'll try to keep them under better wraps, but sometimes—"

"It's fine," I said quickly. "I'd just like a bit of time, and you probably would too."

He was unconvinced, but as usual, didn't press for details when I clearly wanted privacy. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "We just finished scheduling for the rest of the month. I can put in a request, but it will be a few weeks before I can get that kind of time without declaring an emergency, which —"

"— we'd better save for when there actually _is_ one," I finished. I looked out the window to hide my grimace. Part of me —well, the monster, really — wanted to leave today. But this was probably better. I could do some research. I didn't even know if he was still in Columbus. I could think it through, and make sure that I didn't do anything rash that could be traced back to Esme and put her at risk. I couldn't allow my quest for justice to make things worse for her. I needed to keep a clear head, and keep the monster under control. I needed time.

"Actually, next month will be perfect, Carlisle. Just get me as much time as you can."

He smiled and nodded, but it did not reach his worried eyes.

* * *

_AN. Thanks to my fab beta, Coleen561, and lovely writing buddy/prereader, StormDragonfly, for their help on this chapter._

_This is the first time I'm knowingly defying canon in Prelude. The books don't really speak to this, but the Illustrated Guide indicates that Charles is Edward's first victim of his "rebellious stage," which won't start for years still. I frankly don't want Charles around that long muddying the waters as Carlisle and Esme start their romance. So I'm dealing with him now. I normally take pride in trying to be consistent with the canon universe, but I just disagree with it on this point. Just letting you know it's on purpose._

_The incomparable NixHaw is keeping the Prelude Playlist up to date (thanks, sweets). You'll be able to find The Seasons (NixHaw's rec) there soon: http : / /grooveshark . com / #! / playlist / Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU / 60866524_

_Thanks so much for reading. I know I'm taking ridiculously long between chapters. My only excuse is a busy life with insane numbers of trips to hospitals supporting the generation above mine. I appreciate all of you who have stayed with the story, and especially those of you who share your thoughts._


	25. Chapter 25

_AN: There are many references to events in Esme's past in this chapter. If you have not read Intermezzo, you might want to before proceeding. While it's not necessary for understanding, it is helpful. Thanks to me beta, Coleen651, for her usual insightful attention to detail._

* * *

Chapter 25

September 1921

CPOV

Truth be told, I was relieved that Edward wasn't able to see just how obsessive my mind had become in the days since he'd left. Without the constant weight of hiding from him, I found myself luxuriating in my thoughts about Esme, watching her carefully as she made her way through daily routines.

I was already familiar with some of her idiosyncrasies from my normal days off, but I realized that she and Edward changed their routine when I was around, catering to my presence. In a normal week, she wouldn't paint when I was home, opting instead for less solitary pursuits. But since we were going to be alone together for so long, I encouraged her to keep her routine. It was selfish, really. I wanted to see those parts of her that, due to my schedule alone, were hidden from me.

The first day, I learned that she typically changed clothes three times a day: pants for hunting or running, an old, sturdy skirt and blouse for painting or sculpting, and finally, for when she joined me in the library to read or talk or play chess, an impossibly feminine dress that shimmered in the light and caressed her skin enticingly. I was captivated by all of them for different reasons, but the last generally rendered my brain useless and my tongue thick and clumsy, causing me to struggle to make simple conversation.

She was simply stunning.

The second day I learned that her skin, which looked smoother than any marble or glass I'd ever touched, was radiant with different subtle hues depending on the time of day. In the morning, lit by weak, golden light, it shone rich ivory. Midday it was clear, pure alabaster. In the warmth of sunset it glowed with the colors of hope and passion and sweet promise. And at night, the blue light of the moon made her appear ethereal and otherworldly, a mysterious fey sent to ensnare me.

I was her willing captive.

Of course, shadows passed across her face, too. They came suddenly, darkening her expression and hollowing her eyes, and I knew she was remembering some unspoken horror. In these moments, I ached to touch her, to smooth away the clouds and shadows and see her face shine brightly again. But it wasn't my place.

When she smiled, her eyes crinkled just a little, and dimples appeared in both her cheeks. When she laughed, she threw her head back, but when she was trying _not_ to laugh, she'd bite her lips together and her nose would wrinkle slightly at its bridge. I found myself telling her stories, trying to make her laugh.

The third day I was utterly lost. She sat in the window seat at dawn, still in that dress that looked as soft as rose petals, holding a steaming cup of tea to her lips. And I was jealous of the cup, for it knew the softness of her lips. I was jealous of the wisps of steam that rose around her face and caressed her cheek. I was jealous of the very light that traced her skin and made it glow, of the breeze that combed through her hair, brushing it from her brow with the intimacy of a lover.

If she touched a table in passing, I found myself following, brushing my fingertips along the same place to feel her subtle warmth lingering in the wood. And I envied it; I envied the wood, for it knew the brush of her fingertips. If she left a room too long and her perfume faded from the air, I sought her out, unwilling to breathe without bringing some part of her into me. If she went outside to paint, I would position myself in the library so I could see her favorite tree through the window, and watch for the shine of her caramel hair among the warm colors of the changing leaves.

And I knew it was wrong of me. I knew that as her mentor I should not allow these feelings to take root. She needed to be able to trust me, and though I still didn't know the details, I knew she'd been hurt by men before. Any attentions from me would be…unwelcome. I was desperate to keep my growing infatuation hidden so she would not feel uncomfortable, tried to keep my actions subtle and my gazes brief, giving relief to my curiosity without drawing her attention to it. I tried to _not_ be fascinated by her, but it was no use. I couldn't help it. Everything she looked at or lingered near drew my attention. Anything that interested her, I wanted to understand. Anything she touched, or allowed to touch her, I wanted to _be._

And sometimes I was. Sometimes I entered the room, and her face lit up as though I'd given her a gift. Sometimes she seemed to walk out of her way just to pass a little closer to me. Sometimes she'd stand so close that the slightest movement on my part and we'd be touching. I would stand completely still, mesmerized by her proximity: her scent, her subtle warmth and glowing skin, enticing.

If I were allowed to touch her…

If I were allowed to caress her cheek, I would be as soft as the curling steam of her tea. If I could touch her hair, I'd be as gentle as the breeze. If I were able to touch the skin of her shoulder or throat, I'd be as warm as sunlight, as intimate as moonlight. If I could touch her lips… kiss her lips…

If I could…

* * *

EPOV

I walked through the dark empty rooms, familiar though I'd never been here before. I was reminded of going with Carlisle to visit my parents' home when I'd first been changed. But where that home was filled with happy memories, these rooms held mostly horrors. Esme's horrors. And as terrible as it had been to relive those memories, until now, there was still a part of me that found them unreal, like something from a book or surreal dream. Now that I was here, in a place that matched those memories so precisely, they felt all too real.

I crept to the cellar, wanting to see for myself the hidden space behind the loose brick where she'd hidden her saved money, waiting for her chance to escape. The brick moved easily, and I drew my fingers across its rough surface in wonder. Brave, brave Esme. So giving, after all that had been taken from her. I noticed the dried blood on the stone floor on the other side of the room; memories flooded my mind of just how it had gotten there, and my lips curled back into a snarl on their own accord. But I wasn't here for retribution. Not yet.

I went back to the kitchen and collected the empty pack. There wasn't much of this life that she missed, but I had every intention of returning to her those few things she did. I packed them carefully, grateful to find them unharmed where she'd hidden them in the back of the cupboard. I went to the attic to collect the few sketches she had left there, focused on ones that she regretted leaving the most. He had been here. Her supplies and art were strewn across the attic floor, dirty and torn. I rummaged through them, finally finding the sketches of her and Rachel among the mess. I smiled as I studied it, easily recognizing the kind face of her friend, the woman who had helped her escape this hell.

And that was it. There was nothing more here but echoes of Esme's suffering. Suffering that needed to be repaid. I left the cold house for the colder night air.

* * *

CPOV

"No, no. It's much harder than it seems," I said laughing, Esme's face clearly showing she was unconvinced. "We need to start practicing soon. It's a very important part of your training."

"It's important to my training that I learn to blink like a human?" she asked through her smile.

"You wouldn't _believe_ the mistakes I made over the years."

She cocked an eyebrow and leaned back into the sofa, pulling her legs up underneath her as if she were getting comfortable for a long story. "It's hard to imagine you making mistakes, Carlisle."

"Well, there was the time I was in medical school in Prague, and held too still for too long, and was mistaken for a cadaver."

"What, no!" She was shaking hard enough with laughter that she had to set her tea down.

I nodded, laughing. "I was alone in the basement, studying one of the several cadavers that were left out for the students at night. A fellow student came in as I was looking very intently at some vasculature, and I guess he thought someone was playing a joke, dressing one of the cadavers and propping it up. When I spoke he screamed loud enough to bring the caretaker in. He then accused me of doing it on purpose. Claimed I wasn't even breathing, which was probably true." Watching Esme laugh, I decided, was one of life's great joys.

"I made that mistake _several_ times, actually. I stood so still in a park in Vienna once that a bird actually landed on me before realizing that I wasn't a harmless statue but a vicious top predator." I wagged my eyebrows. "Not that it had anything to worry about; songbirds couldn't possibly be worth the trouble."

"No. Stop." She was now laughing hard enough that her breathing was erratic. "I can just picture it. Did it land on your shoulder?"

I pointed to the top of my head, and she rolled with fresh peals.

"So you can see, blinking is _very_ important. But the reactions are the trickiest. Humans react well to things that we are either ambivalent to or feel active revulsion for. Smells, for instance. When I was at university in Paris, I lived over this little French bakery that started baking every morning at four a.m. My fellow students all loved the smell, but to me it was… Esme, are you okay?"

She had gone stiff and still and her expression was pained. I thought back to what I had said, but could find nothing that would be offending.

"I need to go," she whispered to the floor.

"What?" I stood to follow her as she bolted for the door. "Esme?"

But she was gone.

What had happened? We were… we were happy. She hadn't been skittish around me for days, despite my growing infatuation. And during _this_ conversation she'd been completely open, completely _with_ me. Had I shown it? Had I shown her what she did to me? How I would do anything to secure her happiness? I could find nothing offensive in what I'd said. I should let her be, but without Edward here to keep track of her mentally, I needed to at least keep her in a line of sight to make sure she wasn't heading for town. After one more second of indecision, I was out the door.

She was not heading to town.

Moments later I was standing under her favorite tree, the one she painted in, looking up to see her feet and the rustle of her yellow chiffon skirt. And she was safe, and not a threat to others, and I should leave and give her the privacy she obviously wanted. But I couldn't.

"Esme, please. I… I don't know what happened. How did I hurt you? Help me understand, so I can avoid it in the future. I just…I don't know what I did."

She was silent for a moment more, and I leaned heavily against the trunk of the tree, miserable.

"Please, Esme."

She shifted on her branch, away from the trunk, and then patted the space beside her. I was up the tree and next to her in an instant. I watched her for a long, drawn out moment. She looked miserable.

"Esme, please. What did I do?"

"You did nothing," came the whisper.

I shook my head. "I must have. You were happy, and then… and then you were gone."

She shook her head, and I swallowed down frustration and bile.

She eventually broke the silence. "Charles was in France, too. During the war."

I nodded to show I'd heard and understood her, but this was new information, despite the fact that it made perfect sense. "He told me a story, about a bakery. Every morning, when it was still dark, as the eldest daughter worked the dough, he went in and… and," her breath shuddered and I gave a silent prayer that I wasn't about to hear what I thought I was about to hear. "Every morning," she said shakily, "he went in when the rest of the village was asleep, and he bent her over the table where she was working the dough, and he lifted her skirt, and…"

I couldn't help it. My hand went to hers, and I felt relief as she clung to me. "He told you this? Why would he tell you this? Where were you?" It was bad enough that he had done it, but what purpose could be served by telling his wife of such things? I could feel the fury begin to build deep within me.

She took several shuddering breaths before answering me. "He had me bent over the kitchen table where I was working dough. He was holding me down and lifting my skirt…"

"Okay." I squeezed my eyes shut against the vision of Esme being forced like that, by the man who was meant to honor and cherish her. I was livid, trying desperately to exude calm as I boiled within. I wrapped an arm around her, and she leaned heavily into me. I was torn between wanting to comfort her and needing to know. Finally, struggling, I asked, "Did he… was that the only time he…"

She shuddered in my arms. "Charles rarely asked for what he wanted."

Oh, God. That meant it had been a regular occurrence: his normal way of interacting with her. He didn't cherish her at all. He used her. He used her terribly.

"And of course, you know he beat me. You saw the evidence on my bones. I heard you say it once to Edward."

I nodded, rubbing my cheek against her hair, wishing I could protect her from these long faded dangers.

"I could always handle it. I didn't like my life; I knew I was pathetic and trapped, but I held on, I endured… but when he told me about the French girl… when I realized that it wasn't just me. That by letting him do that to me and not exposing him or stopping him, I'd endangered others, too..." Her breathing hitched and she began quietly sobbing.

"Okay, hold on." I moved her away from me and rearranged myself so I was leaning against the tree trunk, straddling the branch. I opened my arms to her, and her momentary confusion eased as she leaned in. I pulled her against my chest, wrapping both my arms around her and stroking her hair as she cried.

"You aren't responsible for his actions, Esme. And you didn't do anything to hurt that French girl. Those sins are his alone to bear."

"But I might have stopped him—"

"—and he might have killed you, if you'd tried." I stroked her cheek, thinking. "Your reactions were very normal, I think. You were protecting yourself as best you could."

She nestled into my chest and slowly, brokenly, told me everything: her entire history with Charles. How the match had soured within weeks, but her family ignored her pleas to come home. How her pastor had known of Charles's violence before he married them. How she had felt betrayed on all sides. How Charles abused her body, abused her mind, abused her trust…

And I was roiling inside. I wanted to chase him down _right now_ and make him pay for Esme's suffering. I wanted to break him, smash him, hurt him as he'd hurt her. But I couldn't. It was far more important that I stay where I was, comforting her, protecting her, caring for her.

"I know I should have told you earlier," she finally whispered, and I squeezed her shoulders in a way I hoped was reassuring. "I feel rather ashamed that it took me so long to leave him. At first I had no money, but I saved, I was ready. Then he came back from the war and he seemed different, but he wasn't. He wore me down, day by day, and I felt helpless. But after he told me the story of the French bakery, I knew he hadn't changed. And then I learned I was pregnant, and what if I had a daughter… there was no way I could bring an innocent into that house."

Of course, Esme had been innocent when she'd entered it.

I squeezed her again, realizing that this information explained so many things: Esme's reactions when she first awoke and realized she now lived with two men. Edward's pain… he'd seen all the memories and could share them with no one. _It's not my story to tell,_ he'd always say when I asked. This had hurt him, as well.

"I'm glad you've told me," I whispered, stroking her hair. "I understand why you didn't want to share it earlier, but I'm glad I know now. And you shouldn't have to bear this alone, Esme. You aren't alone anymore."

"Edward knew," she said ruefully. "I know it shouldn't bother me; he knows everything. But I hate that he knows. I hate that he's felt it: my humiliation and pain. I would have spared him that if I could have. And I know Charles can't touch me here, but I can't help being afraid. I had a good life while he was fighting in the war. I had work, I had friends; I was beginning to feel comfortable in my home again. Then he came back, and I lost it all. Now my life is good again, and part of me just keeps waiting for him to show up."

"He won't come, Esme. But if he were to, God help him. I don't see him faring well in that situation." I held her back far enough that we could see each other, framing her face gently with my hands, searching her eyes. "You aren't alone anymore. Not unless you want to be. You are safe, you are cared for, and you are not alone. And you know that neither Edward or I would ever, _ever_…"

"I know," she whispered, touching my hand with hers. "I know. I feel safe here. I feel…cared for. You and Edward are my family now. I don't want to leave."

I wrapped her in my arms again, smiling against her hair. "There's no reason for you to ever leave, Esme. I actually can't imagine my life without you anymore. I've been hoping you would stay for quite some time."

* * *

EPOV

I finally caught his scent outside a bar on the other side of town. The place reeked of sweat and alcohol and filth, and I watched from the shadows through the window. He had clearly been here a while; his balance and speech were already compromised. It would be nothing to overwhelm him once he left. I hid my pack in the nearby woods and returned to my sentry post.

He was not a popular man. Several of the other patrons seemed to fear or shun him, and others glared openly. There were bruises on his hands and a cut on his cheek, as if he'd been in a recent fight.

At one-thirty in the morning, a new group of men entered the bar, and Charles Evenson was quickly surrounded. Alarmed, the barkeep told them all to leave, and I watched as Charles was removed forcibly and dragged to a dark alley. I moved silently, keeping my prey in sight as others began to abuse him, moving into the shadows at the end of the alley, pressed against a wall. Harsh words were spoken: money, gambling debts, another man's wife. And then blows flew, and I watched in fascination as the violence in my heart played out before my eyes, without my involvement. When his skin was finally broken, I grasped the drainpipe behind me and held my breath. I felt like Odysseus, lashed to his mast while the enticing and lethal song of the sirens beckoned. Even in the darkness, I could see the blood pouring from his face. The monster within wanted it, wanted _him_. Wanted to bathe in it, soak in it; let it soak my throat and skin. The red haze blurred my vision, forcing me to close my eyes. Even then, I could hear the squelch of the wet flesh being punched, the splatter of blood droplets to the ground. Wasted, the monster thought.

I knew that the blood was trying to attack all my senses: smell, sight, sound, and certainly touch and taste if I let it. Only by cutting all but one sense out did I have a chance of not being overwhelmed. And I did not want to succumb to the monster. Whatever I did to Charles Evenson tonight, I did not want it to be mindless reflex. I wanted it to be calculated: slow and painful. I wanted him to understand. This was not mere predation. This was personal. A vendetta. Justice. Besides, the thought of _touching_ much less lowering my mouth to the man that had done those things to Esme made me want to wretch. The monster would get over these reservations, but _I_ would regret them later. Regret letting any of him into me. I needed to maintain control.

Eventually, the sounds eased. Footsteps retreated, and even voices from the road faded, until only wet raspy breaths and moans remained. I opened my eyes and saw a crumped form in the middle of the alley, halfway between the main road and me. No light came from the road. The bar was closed. I scanned my surroundings: the few minds in the area were too drunk to notice anything, and were moving further away from us. It was time. I grasped the drainpipe more tightly and took a shallow breath. The burn in my throat was excruciating, but I thought around it, remembering the way he pushed her to her knees, the way he belittled her and demeaned her every day. His blood wasn't enticing, I told myself, and after a few minutes I could breathe evenly, and the pain receded.

I took a tentative step toward him and saw his body twitch at the sound. He was struggling to look toward me as I approached. He was sure his luck had changed for the night, and that finally someone was going to come along to help. How wrong he was.

I stood over him, looking down. I was no medical man, but even I could tell that if he weren't delivered to a hospital soon, he'd not likely make it through the night. His eyes pleaded with mine. "Help me," came his whisper.

I tilted my head, wondering how long it would take for him to realize I was not his salvation. "Oh, I intend to, Charles." I placed my foot on his sternum, applying just enough pressure to be threatening,

His eyes grew wide, and his thoughts fluttered toward death as I bared my teeth. He flinched. "Who are you? How do you know me," he whispered.

I paused for a moment, enjoying the fear that was starting to grow in his mind. "I'm a friend of Esme's."

"That cunt left me."

"Language, Charles. You and I are going to have a little chat." I jerked my foot and heard two ribs crack through his scream, and the monster reveled.

* * *

CPOV

A thunderstorm kept Esme and me in the house after our hunt, and she was as anxious and restless as a caged animal. She sat in the window seat watching the rain beat against the windowpane and lightning flash violet-white through the room. She jumped up, pacing, before forcing herself to sit again. After watching her agitation for thirty minutes, I couldn't take it.

"Just go paint, Esme," I said, laughing. "Go paint in the kitchen. I promise I won't come in without your permission."

She looked at me, her expression equal parts guilt, relief, and annoyance.

"It feels wrong to be in the other room if you're in the house."

I shook my head, smiling. "That's very sweet, Esme, but I assure you it's fine. Edward and I often didn't speak for an entire day when we were alone together. And surely you don't spend every moment of every day with Edward. Why would I be different?"

She huffed. "I hope I have better manners than _Edward_," she said, bypassing the second question.

"Your manners are perfect, but this is your home just as much as mine, and you should do what makes you comfortable. Clearly, sitting still through a thunderstorm doesn't." I couldn't help the amused affection that seeped into my voice, and I hoped she didn't find it too presumptive.

She smirked, clearly not offended. "I've always loved them."

"I remember. You once climbed a tree just to get closer to one.

She chuckled. "You know me so well," she said, ruefully.

I cocked my eyebrow, and she laughed. "All right. You're right of course. I'm dying to paint. There are better windows in here though. If you promise not to peek…"

"You want to paint in here, with me?"

She tilted her head in silent query.

"I'd love that, and of course I won't look unless you want to show me your work." I was longing to see it, but I was a patient man, if nothing else.

She smiled. "I'm going to get changed."

I returned my attention to my book, smiling as she left the room. Moments later she returned, her filmy pale yellow dress exchanged for a paint-covered frock, and I couldn't help my grin. I found her charming like this: industrious and concentrated, moving furniture (no, she insisted, my help wasn't necessary), positioning her easel such that I couldn't see her work, facing me yet hiding behind it as she arranged her tints, oils and brushes on a small table she'd brought in from the kitchen. I tried not to look at her palette to see her color choices as she mixed them, finding pleasure even in the strong odor of the linseed oil. I felt privileged to be permitted to see her like this, and didn't want to ruin it by being obtrusive.

I watched her stealthily, enjoying the flick of her wrist as the way her brow furrowed as her attention moved from the window to the canvas. The passion of the rain driving through the trees and against the glass separating us from the tempest was reflected in her face. The glint of the lightning flashed in her eyes, her melancholy mood lost to fire and industry. And I was mesmerized. Perhaps in some context I was capable of being as focused as she was in this moment. Perhaps when I was first studying medicine, my face exhibited this concentration, but it was always for the sake of control. To do what I loved required painstaking control and repression. It was nothing like the emotion that played on Esme's face as she painted. My skill as a surgeon was almost antithetical to the vibrant freedom in her limbs as they approached the canvas, not as though they were imposing something on it, but rather as though they were _coaxing_ something from it. Lovingly. As if the golds and violets were hidden in the white canvas and needed only to be uncovered by patience and care. She moved with almost a pulsating energy, yet there was precision, too. Not a speck of paint fell to the carpet or surrounding cushions, though plenty was smeared on her cloth and frock as she worked the paint.

For hours she painted as I read. She stiffened defensively at first when I got up to change the gramophone record or retrieve something from my study, but eventually she became comfortable that I would not abuse her trust by peeking. And I loved the growing confidence between us, and the…almost intimacy… in being allowed to see her when she was at her most creative.

Finally her arms fell to her sides, and her head tilted slightly as she studied the canvas. For the first time in hours, it seemed appropriate to speak again.

"Taking a break, or is it finished?" I asked quietly, not wanting to disrupt the comfortable air of the rom too much.

She wiped her brow, accidentally smearing paint near her temple. The warm dark gold matched her eyes as they turned to mine. "It's done I think. If I do more it will just go mushy. The colors can be overworked." She paused for a moment, and then took a deep breath. "Do you want to see it?"

I smiled and stood; my answer was so obvious there was no need to state it. She must have felt the waves of curiosity and interest rolling off me all afternoon. I walked toward her, keeping my eyes on hers until I was by her side, and then I turned to face the canvas.

I drew a sharp breath as I studied the painting. It was exactly as I'd imagined it a decade ago, except for the flashes of gold.

"Your purple clouds," I whispered.

"Yes, from the first time we met. And here are branches from my tree," she said, pointing.

"You shouldn't have been in the tree if there was lightning nearby," I said, worry clear in my voice, as if she could still be hurt by the storm.

"The lightning was far away. But it _felt_ like this. Exciting… promising."

Gold cut through the deep purple, illuminating it, casting other areas in deep shadow. And while real lightning was blue-tinted cold and brutal white, Esme's lightning was warm and gleaming, a perfect complement to the purple clouds. Harmonious.

As if reading my mind she whispered, "In my dreams, the lightning was always gold." She looked into my eyes and my breath hitched again, seeing the gold on her forehead and in her eyes, and knowing the same gold was in my eyes as well. As it had been for as long as she'd known me.

"In your dreams?" I whispered.

She nodded, biting her lip for a moment before taking another deep breath. "I don't remember it well now, of course, but know I dreamt about that storm years later. When I felt… stifled. I dreamt of the promise in that moment…of the feeling that the storm was bringing change, something exhilarating and new and just for me…" She stopped abruptly, as if she'd said too much. She looked away, toward the painting, and I immediately missed the anchoring of her eyes. I felt adrift and off balance when she continued. "The storm in my dreams always started dark and purple and humid, but always ended awash in cool breezes and bathed in gold."

I swallowed, wondering, hoping. "So you painted your dream."

She looked back into my eyes and I once again felt simultaneously grounded and dizzy. "I think I always paint my dreams. Even now, when I can't sleep."

"Just because you can't sleep, it doesn't mean you can't dream, Esme. I would be horribly sad to think you no longer dreamed."

She seemed to consider that and then whispered, "Do you still dream?"

"Oh, yes. More and more, I think."

Almost of its own accord, my hand reached up to brush her hair. But as her eyes grew wide with… alarm? fear? (surely not) … I steered my hand to her brow, wiping it with my thumb.

"And you are still bathed in gold, I think," I said, showing her the paint on the pad of my thumb.

She giggled, and the tension that had been building since I first came to stand by her dissipated. She reached for her cloth, but instead of wiping her brow, she handed it to me. I carefully found a clean corner of the rag and told her to close her eyes and be still. She complied, with a trust so blinding that I was awed. I stared for a moment at her lips, the urge to kiss her nearly overwhelming. But how could I abuse such trust? I pushed the desire down, instead savoring the feeling of her brow under my fingertips, even if it was through layers of paint-covered rag.

She sighed, "It's yours," as I lowered the cloth and she opened her eyes.

"What is?" I whispered.

"The painting. If you'd like it, that is."

"Oh, Esme. Thank you. You honor me."

"It's the beginning… our beginning. Of course it's yours."

Our beginning. Implying that there was more to come. I found the word as beautiful as the painting it inspired.

* * *

EPOV

I stood in the shadows between the two buildings as dawn began to creep across the sky, heralded by songbirds, even in the heart of the city. I smelled the air once more, making sure that there were no traces of blood remaining on me. My fresh clothes were wrinkled, but clean, my skin washed spotless after my night's… adventure.

I didn't have long to wait. Before the sun had even made it over the trees, she was stepping out through the door to collect the paper and milk from the porch. I was in front of her before she stood straight again.

"Rachel Carmichael?"

She started so violently that she dropped the milk, and I caught it, cursing my own stupidity.

"Yes?" She was eying me warily, but not quite fearfully, and her mind showed more curiosity than alarm. I was too well dressed, she thought, to need a room at the Hospitality House.

"I was hoping I could have a word with you, alone." I dropped my voice, "I'm a friend of Esme's."

She stiffened and raised her chin. "I don't know where she is. I've already told everyone I don't know where she is. It's been over a year since she worked here."

I leaned in conspiratorially, "Yes, but I _do_ know where she is." I smiled, hoping Rachel would see that I was, by extension, her friend too.

Her eyes grew wide, and she motioned me through the door, leading me to her office, where she shut the door and invited me to sit.

"Esme?" she asked cautiously.

"She's well. She's happy. It's probably not safe for you to know many details, but I was in the neighborhood, and the way she… talks… about you, I thought you'd want to know." She'd thought about Rachel more than she'd spoken, but the sentiment was the same.

"Thank you," she whispered. She was silent for a moment and then she asked, "Her baby?"

I grimaced. "Died shortly after birth. Lung fever."

"Oh no! Did she… I mean, was she—"

"She didn't take it well, but she's okay now. She's living with my uncle and me. He's a physician, and she was ill for a while and needed his attention. She's fully recovered now." We fell into an awkward silence. Each of us considered Esme a close friend, but we were strangers to each other. Rachel had been Esme's best friend for more than a year, had given her hope after her abuse, and had helped her escape it. After the night I'd had, it was a relief to be with a mind that was so… kind. I tried to think of something truthful I could offer her. "She took your name, you know… she goes by Esme Carmichael. She drew strength from you, even when she was on her own." I paused, fiddling with the arm of the chair, trying to decide how to express my feelings toward this stranger. This familiar stranger. "I feel grateful for it. For you. She's become such an important part of my uncle's and my life, I feel grateful she had your help and friendship when she needed it. I didn't want you to have to wonder your whole life what had happened to her."

She smiled and took a shuddering breath. "Thank you. I appreciate that so much…"

"Edward," I offered.

"Thank you so much, Edward. Does she… does she know you're here?"

I shook my head. "But I'm confident she'd approve. She misses you, but it's not safe for her to come back. Oh, and you should have this."

I reached into the pocket of my coat, pulling out one of the sketches Esme had done of the two of them.

She traced her fingertips over the sketch of Esme's face. Her eyes met mine, and they were glistening. "Thank you," she whispered. She fell silent for a few moments, wiping her eyes and thinking. Then she looked up at me. "I'd like to write her."

I smiled. "We're likely moving soon, so our address won't be good much longer, but I'm happy to bring a letter to her, and make sure she has this address."

She scrutinized me for a moment, debating whether I was controlling like Charles had been. She decided that I wouldn't be talking with her now, letting her know that Esme was okay, if I were domineering.

"Just give me ten minutes to write a letter," she said.

I grinned. "I have fifteen before I need to head to the train station," I said, though the truth was I'd be taking the 8:30 train tomorrow or the next day, after the paper reported Charles' death.

Then my work here would be finished.

* * *

CPOV

"Honey, I'm home!" Edward's voice carried from the forest, and Esme and I grinned at each other before she leapt up from the sofa and ran barefoot out the door. By the time I got to the porch Edward had set down his three packs and Esme had her arms around his neck. He embraced her warmly, and smiled at me over her shoulder. Before this trip I might have felt jealous of their easy affection, but now that Esme and I were more comfortable and open around each other, it just pleased me.

"Welcome home, Edward," I said, wrapping my arm over his shoulder when Esme _finally _deigned to release him. He grinned at that thought.

"Did I miss anything interesting?" he asked, and flashes of memory crossed my mind, mostly of Esme confiding and me comforting her in the tree.

His eyes grew large as I said, "Nothing we couldn't handle. Did you have a good trip?"

"It was productive."

"Did you buy all of Chicago?" Esme asked, picking up one of the packs as I grabbed another. A third was on Edward's back, and they all appeared full.

"I may have done a bit of shopping," Edward said evasively. "That one's half full of dresses, so I wouldn't be too critical, Esme."

She flashed him a guilty smile. "That's good… I _may_ have ruined my yellow chiffon while you were away."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I climbed a tree in it, snagging it terribly, and then since it was ruined anyway, I went hunting in it, which finished the job rather effectively."

"Esme," he said, rolling his eyes, and I laughed at our easy banter. It was good to have him home. He smiled at the thought and nodded his agreement as we entered the house.

Soon we were in the library with the packs open, Edward tossing Esme dress after dress as he emptied the first one. "I think there's a suitable replacement for the yellow chiffon in there somewhere, but Esme, from now on tree-climbing is for—"

"—cotton frocks or pants, I know Edward. It won't happen again." She started removing the paper wrapping from her new clothes when Edward caught my attention and tossed me a book.

"A Text-Book of Physiology for Medical Students and Physicians," I read aloud. "Oh, By William Howell. I think I have an earlier version of this."

"You do, but this is the new edition, just out this year. Northwestern's medical school is using it as their text. Apparently, there have been a lot of advances."

"Thank you, Edward." There were definite advantages to having access to a large city with a major university. This book probably wouldn't make it to Wisconsin for another year or two.

"I got you some new Bach recordings, as well," Edward said as he started unpacking new gramophone records and sheet music… mostly jazz, but classical and new composers as well. Esme started on the third pack, picking up something wrapped in layers of cloth.

"Careful, that's fragile."

Esme looked quizzically at Edward and then proceeded to unwrap a dainty teacup with a band of cobalt blue interrupted with salmon-colored roses.

Esme froze, looking at it as if she were seeing a ghost. "Edward?" she whispered. "Is this Nana's…" She didn't finish aloud, but after a moment he nodded, and she lovingly placed it back in a nest of cloth before hugging him fiercely. "Thank you!" she whispered though heavy, metered breaths.

"You don't live there any more. No part of you remains there. Okay?" She nodded into his shoulder, clearly fighting her emotions. "And it's been far too long since that tea set saw any actual tea." He pulled away smiling, and reached into his pack, handing her a box.

"Earl Grey," she whispered, reading the label. Edward smiled and she abruptly kissed his cheek and then ran to the kitchen.

"You went to Columbus?" I asked.

He nodded. "She left some personal effects there, and I remembered how you let me take the things that were important to me from my parents house. She couldn't take much when she fled. Her Nana gave her that tea set."

I nodded, looking at the cup sitting on the top of the pack. It was vibrant and beautiful. "That was really kind of you, Edward."

He shrugged, and I wondered if that were the only reason he'd gone to Columbus. He reached into the pack for a moment and pulled out a newspaper, tossing it to the table in front of me. It was turned to the obituaries. After scanning it for a second, I looked at him, shocked.

_Edward! What have you done?_

* * *

_AN: The imagery in the first scene was largely inspired by/borrowed from the lyrics of "Like a Lover", aka "Cantador". My favorite version of the song will be added to the Prelude playlist soon (thanks NixHaw!), which can be found on my profile. Please, go listen. There are few more hauntingly beautiful (unrequited) love songs on the planet. I reference the song in Chapter 2 of my first fanfic, Midnight Sun Bridge, in which Edward shares the song with Carlisle, saying it reminds him of this moment of their lives. Two years later, I'm finally able to use it. I never dreamed I'd be at this so long, but I thank each of you for continuing to read and share your thoughts. And thanks to StormDragonfly and my other author friends on twitter who keep me motivated and sane (or at least reasonably so). I promise the next one won't take two months.  
_

_Addenda: I love to respond to reviews, but if you don't log in, I'm unable to. If you are truly a "Guest" and don't want a response, of course that's your choice, but if you are a member, please sign in so I can thank you for your review, answer questions you may have posed, etc.  
_


	26. Chapter 26

_From Chapter 25:_

_Edward! What have you done?_

* * *

CPOV

He raised an eyebrow as he continued to dig through the pack, finding Esme's teapot and unwrapping it carefully. Either he thought the answer was obvious, or he thought it didn't concern me, which only made me angrier. Had he killed Charles? Had he _drunk_ from Charles?

Edward glared at me pointedly, his golden eyes narrow. No, of course he hadn't drunk from Charles. But he had something to do with his death, despite what the newspaper said. Despite my rules.

"You know what he was, what he _did_ to her," Edward whispered harshly.

I swallowed. Of course I did. Perhaps not so thoroughly or viscerally as Edward knew, but I'd heard sufficient details to be driven nearly mad, and he was well aware of it. He had seen enough of my time alone with Esme to know what she'd told me, and how I'd reacted. And he knew I'd had the same urge: I'd wanted to tear Charles limb from limb.

"A little hypocritical of you to chastise me, then, don't you think?" he hissed.

For a fraction of a second I wondered if he _had_ torn Charles apart, and if it had been satisfying, and I was actually envious that he'd been the one to do it when I should have... but I quickly stomped that feeling down, ashamed he'd seen such desire in me.

_Thinking something and acting on it are two very different things, Edward. We are not monsters, despite our race. We are civilized, and…_

"_He_ wasn't. Civilized men don't rape their wives."

His blunt words stung me, as did the passion behind them. And he was right; Charles was not civilized. But murder… it went even beyond an eye for an eye. And Charles was no threat to us in Columbus. Why pursue him? I knew I'd shown the same desire for vengeance, but violence was no way forward, no example to set. Even now, I could hear Esme in the kitchen, moving the kettle onto the stove and lighting it, happy and safe. _That_ was the way forward: keeping her safe, making her understand that I would do anything for her happiness.

He scowled and shook his head in clear disgust. "What do you think I was doing?" he whispered harshly.

_You think killing Charles was necessary for Esme's happiness? I think it's more likely that you just wanted to exact revenge after everything you've been forced to witness. I even understand the desire, Edward, but I can't condone-_

"You understand nothing!"

"What's going on?" Esme's voice cut across our thoughts, and we both looked at her sheepishly. "Are you arguing?"

"N-"

"Yes," Edward's voice was louder than mine.

"But you two never fight."

_So you can hear us_, I thought, and Edward looked sideways at me and smirked in spite of himself. He resumed unwrapping Esme's teapot.

"What can you possibly have to argue about? Edward just got home!"

Neither of us spoke, but it was more obvious in my case since Edward's hands were busy and his eyes were down, whereas I was just standing, looking like a child caught where he shouldn't be. My hands opened slightly, conciliatorily, as I fumbled for something to say.

"Is it about me? Is that why you're so quiet? Is it something to do with me?"

"N-" I started.

"Yes," Edward shot me a look.

Esme put her hands on her hips and glared at us both. "You can't hide things from me, you know. I may not have Edward's gift, but I'll figure it out. And you shouldn't anyway. I'm not a child, or even a newborn, and I'm not a patient," she said pointedly to me. "I deserve to know what's going on."

I sighed, scrubbing my hand over my face. She was right, I supposed. I wanted to protect her from any and every potential source of pain, especially relating to even the _mention_ of Charles, but she was a modern woman. She wouldn't like being treated the way… well the way I'd seen women treated for over 200 years. That would take some getting used to.

"We aren't fighting about you, Esme, but we are… discussing… something that relates to you."

I handed her the newspaper, and her eyes widened when she saw the name on the obituary. As she read, I wished I had Edward's gift and could hear her reaction as she read. He set down the teapot in anticipation of her reaction, his face grim as her brow furrowed...

"He's dead?" she whispered, looking up at Edward.

He gave her a small nod. "You're a widow now, Esme — in truth this time, not just in spirit."

Her eyes closed and she let her head drop back, almost as though she were overwhelmed with the knowledge, but there was no mistaking the relief that washed through her expression. And then, almost faster than I could see, her arms were around Edward's neck, and she was speaking softly.

"Did you… no, don't answer that. I don't want to know." She took several breaths, her eyes squeezed tight. "Thank you for bringing this."

His eyes darted to me for just a moment as he answered her, "He had more enemies than just me, Esme. He was not a good man, and now you are free of him, utterly and completely."

She pulled back and searched his face, as if trying to see what he wasn't telling her. "So, those four men…"

"As it says, he was seen forcibly leaving the bar with them, and he was found dead in the adjacent alley the next morning."

"And no one heard anything?"

Edward cocked his head, answering carefully. "No one who was willing to help him."

She hugged him again, tightly. So many emotions were playing across her face that I could hardly recognize them: relief, certainly, but pain, concern and love were also there. She took a shuddering breath and whispered, "I'm sorry you ever had to know about him, but thank you."

His arms slid around her back and he returned her embrace firmly and then dropped his arms. The kettle started to whistle in the kitchen.

Esme stepped back from him, keeping her hands on his shoulders and giving them an affectionate squeeze. Edward smiled and handed her the teapot while she wiped her face as if there were tears. She started to turn toward the kitchen when Edward said, " I saw one other person while there, Esme."

She turned to give him a questioning look.

"Rachel Carmichael."

The teapot slipped from her hands and Edward lunged to catch it.

"I have _got_ to stop doing that," he muttered under his breath.

"Rachel?"

He nodded. "I visited her early one morning. I didn't want her to wonder her whole life if you were okay. I didn't tell her much: just that you were safe and happy… well, and about Colin." He paused for a moment, digging through the pack again. "She wrote you a letter," he said, handing it to her.

She took it, slowly, silently, and then crushed it to her chest, looking at Edward as if he were Father Christmas. And now I truly was jealous, that he could put that look on her face, but I was also humbled. Edward _was_ focused on Esme's happiness; that letter, however risky procuring it might have been, was proof of that. And Esme's response to hearing of Charles's death wasn't what I'd expected either. However much I may disagree with his decisions, it appeared there was some wisdom behind them. I could only hope the price wouldn't be too high.

"I'm going to go read this," Esme said breathlessly.

"We'll take care of the kettle," Edward said as she disappeared outside in the direction of her tree. He headed to the kitchen, and I followed, my mind spinning with the implications of everything I'd seen.

"Edward?" I asked quietly enough that our conversation wouldn't carry to Esme.

He removed the kettle from the heat and braced himself against the counter, not turning to face me.

"Carlisle," he said, wary and weary.

"Did you kill Charles Evenson?"

He sighed. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters! How could it not?"

He turned and glared at me, posture stiff. "I went there with the intent to kill him. Does it really matter whether or not someone else beat me to it?"

"So you didn't kill him?"

"I don't think I should tell you. I don't have to tell you everything, Carlisle. You're not my father. I understand your point of view. I just disagree, in this instance. And technically, I didn't break your rules. You say we can't drink from humans; we can't kill innocents. I did neither."

It was the weakest, most pathetic attempt to misconstrue my rules I'd ever heard, and it made me furious.

"And you can't deny this benefits you," he said before I could argue.

_What?_ "You can't _possibly_ claim that you did this for me. Not after you snuck off to do it."

"No. I did it for her," he pointed outside, "but it certainly doesn't hurt your cause if Esme thinks of herself as _no longer married_."

I froze. She'd considered herself still married to him? That monster who had mistreated her.

"You're always telling us we aren't dead, Carlisle. How exactly was she to be released from her vows?"

Rage bubbled up inexplicably, not toward Edward, but at the…world. And Edward's posture softened.

"I couldn't stand it, Carlisle. I understand your rules and I agree… most of the time. But not when it's him. Not with him still hurting her from a distance, despite the safety we try to provide." He looked away. "I'm not going to try to say I wasn't motivated at all by revenge, but I could have let it go, if she could have."

I looked at the ceiling, wishing I couldn't see his perspective. I let out a long steadying breath and looked at him, still a picture of defiance, practically _daring_ me to tell him I disagreed. "Edward, the rules aren't just to protect humans; the rules are to protect you."

"From what, exactly?"

"The darkening of your soul."

"I don't have a soul."

I scrubbed my face. This was an old argument; I wished I hadn't brought it up. "Your psyche, then. Killing another being affects you. I should know; I've been forced to kill my own kind numerous times. The point is, each time you take a life, the next one becomes easier, until you end up like Aro, disregarding all life but your own and the few you value."

His expression darkened. "Trust me, Carlisle, my psyche is _fine_. I know more about Charles Evenson now than I ever learned from Esme, and I'm confident I did the world a favor. She was not his only victim. Seeing it through her memories was disturbing and surreal, but seeing it through _his_ was just sickening. Anyway, it's not like I intend to make this a habit. And I _didn't _drink from him."

"But you did kill him?"

He sighed, running his fingers through his hair, clearly trying to decide whether to tell me. "You really shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Carlisle."

"But I do want to know." My voice had become softer, and I could feel his defensiveness ease. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the wall, trying to be patient as he looked out the window and decided what to do. When he turned to me again, I nodded encouragingly.

"Everything in the obituary is accurate; it's just incomplete. Those men beat him. I watched from the darkness. When he was left for dead in the alley, Charles and I had a… conversation, part of which was physical. I stayed to make sure he died."

_By bleeding out, slowly_, I finished in my mind. It must have taken all of Edward's control not to drink.

"It was surprisingly easy, once I got over the initial shock of the scent. I just remembered who he was, and what he'd done. I didn't want him inside me. And I needed to stay in control, I needed him to understand."

_Understand what?_

"That he hadn't broken her. That she was thriving, happy, and he was the broken one."

I tried to imagine that exchange, and had to admit I felt some satisfaction from it, in spite of myself. I rubbed my brow, trying to collect my myriad thoughts and emotions and put them in some sort of order. Edward's control and focus on Esme had been exemplary, and made me proud, despite the horrible circumstances. And I had to acknowledge that his interference seemed to help Esme, whether I wished it so or not. Still, I hated what it might have meant for his innocence.

"Do you think he would have died if you hadn't been there?"

He shrugged. "Not as painfully as he should have," he muttered under his breath. "And we wouldn't have known. It wouldn't have helped Esme, or..."

_My cause_, I finished, and felt ashamed he'd seen as much of my feelings as he clearly had. My role as her mentor was becoming blurred as she grew out of her newborn stage and I found myself living with a lovely, creative, inquisitive, passionate…

"Okay, okay," he interrupted. "You need to get her through her blood training and combat before any more… like that…" he waved his hands, uncomfortable articulating what was in my mind. Just as well.

"You're right. We should start soon."

We went back to the living room and finished unpacking his purchases. Esme returned after an hour seeming more grounded than I'd ever seen her. She didn't share the contents of the letter, but she was serene now, and went through the items Edward brought for her. We found a place of honor in the library for her tea set, and she brewed herself a pot of Earl Grey, filling the house with the aromas of bergamot and pungent black tea. Seeing her so contented made me actually enjoy the scents.

When she came across the sketches Edward had brought from her attic, she gasped, and I moved to look over her shoulder.

"Is that…"

"Rachel," she finished. "And me, of course." She floated her hand over Rachel's face, emotion pouring off her body in waves. "I haven't been able to draw her. The details of her face are never right. Even when I was human and first moved here, I couldn't get her right, and now…"

"The faces fade first," I said, admiring the drawing.

"That's true," Edward added. "The same thing happened to me."

"We should frame this and hang it in the library, unless you'd rather have it in your bedroom."

"Really?" Esme looked at me with bright eyes.

"Of course. This is important, Esme. She was your friend. I'll make the frame myself, if you like. I'll bring some woods home tomorrow for you to choose from."

Edward looked at me fondly, and I smiled, remembering when I taught him to make the frames for his keepsakes. I was sad that Esme would have only the one.

"She belongs in the library, I think," Esme said, tracing her fingers along the paper. "I don't want her hidden away."

"I gave one to Rachel, too. The one of the two of you at the table with the flowers. She had it propped up on her desk when I left her. I thought it was important that you have this one. Her eyes look so warm. It's a good likeness, Esme. She still looks like that."

Esme beamed, and Edward gave her a quick one-armed hug, and then took his new sheet music to the piano. Soon music filled the house.

The autumn leaves reached their peak, and then began to fade and fall as we started Esme's training. She was a natural at combat. Climbing trees since childhood had given her a nimbleness and grace that were only heightened by her vampiric reflexes. And she was very keen to learn how to deflect an attack. However, none of that meant that it was easy or going well. One problem was me; where I'd had no problem attacking Edward during his training, I found it difficult to overcome my desire to protect Esme from Edward, much less attack her myself. And it didn't help that when I pinned her for the first time during training, she became nearly hysterical, harkening back to her first days with us as we trained her to hunt. She did not like being pinned or restrained, but especially when it was me looming over her. I quickly pulled her to standing and raised my hands in surrender, staying close but no longer touching her. After a second she walked toward me and buried her face in my chest, and my arms wrapped easily around her. I didn't need Edward's gift to realize what had been triggered.

"I'm sorry. I know this is important, but I don't like it when you attack me," she whispered in a faltering voice.

I stroked her hair. "I don't like it much either," I whispered into the top of her head, trying to sooth her. "I always enjoyed attacking Edward; it was satisfying trying to wipe that smirk off his face." She laughed into my chest and tightened her arms around me. "You are far too sweet for me to enjoy fighting with, Esme, but someday we may meet with someone who wants to take you from us, and I would feel much better knowing I'd done everything I could to protect you, and allow you to protect yourself." I pulled away from her so I could see her face, cupping it with both my hands as her hands fell to my waist. "Esme, I know you can do this. You have this… this passion, this _fire_ that shows in so much of what you do. I'm sure you will make a fierce and glorious warrior, if you put your mind to it. I do not want to attack you, but I _do_ want you protected, and sometimes with our kind, it comes down to a fight."

"Not just our kind."

"No," I admitted, "not just our kind. But with our kind, fights are often to the death. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

She looked into my eyes for a moment and then nodded, determination forming in her amber eyes.

"Ready to try again?"

She stepped back and dropped into a defensive crouch. I saw just the flash of her dimple and then she growled at me, making me smile momentarily before she pounced, and things quickly grew serious again. And though I couldn't say I pushed as hard as quickly as I had during Edward's training, I was able to teach her.

Edward had no such compunction about pushing Esme's limits, or encouraging her to push mine. He spurred her on, teasing her with comments about secrets he would tell if she didn't at least _try _to pin him to the ground. When he still didn't like the force of her attempts he took it out on me, disavowing her of the idea of holding back with a surprise attack that sent me sprawling through the air and against a tree. Esme let out a startled laugh, which was quickly extinguished when I launched a counter attack that made Edward's eyes grow wide as a "shit" escaped his mouth. Soon we were sparring the way we had during _his_ training as Esme watched in awe. Then Edward gave her some sort of signal, glaring at her and nodding when she asked a silent question, and suddenly I was fighting them both off.

"Considering his gift, I think this might be more fair if it were Esme and me against Edward," I said as I struggled to keep them both at bay. Edward smirked but slowly withdrew from the fight, until Esme and I were sparring alone, much more ferociously than we ever had before. Edward merely called out suggestions from the sidelines as she tried to pin me.

And I was right; she was glorious in her fierceness. A bit clumsy in her attack still — it would be weeks or months before she could smoothly direct attacks that weren't obvious or easy to deflect — but her passion! She was like Medbh, the warrior queen of old, terrible in her beauty, lethal and intoxicating in her charm.

If combat training was going reasonably well, the same could not be said of blood training. We did it in a small clearing by the house; with Edward there to monitor her thoughts, it wasn't necessary to lock us all in a barn, as we'd done with his training. After discussing with her at length what was entailed, I started coming home from work once or twice a week with blood-soaked cloths. I just let Edward know mentally on the drive home whether I had one with me, and he had Esme waiting in the clearing.

The first time she had me pinned as was going for my throat within a second. Edward wrestled her off of me and held her back to his chest until the scent had faded enough for her mind to return to itself. We sat in the grass, huddled together as her throat burned. And though I knew it was necessary, I hated the pain it caused her. By the end of several weeks, she was pinning me and sniffing my neck, but retaining enough of her faculties that she did _not_ try to bite me. However, progress seemed to plateau at this point. She was never able to resist advancing on me.

I was sitting in my chair by the fire on a pale October afternoon thinking about the troubles at work and trying _not_ to look for glimpses of Esme's auburn hair as she sat in her tree, painting. Edward approached silently and watched me for a moment.

"This isn't working."

I turned to him, shock and worry building in my mind. _Do you want to be more specific?_

"Esme's training. I think I should be the one to hold the blood from now on."

We'd been over this. "She could hurt you, Edward. It's my responsibility; I should be the one shouldering the risk."

"But neither of you wants her to succeed."

_What? Of course I want her to succeed…_

"But you don't mind when she's hovering over your prone body," he said, a gentle accusation.

I might have blushed if it were still possible. I knew better than try to deny it… much. _I didn't mind it when you pinned me either. It's all part of the training._

He snorted. "Nice try, Carlisle. I'd let the two of you flounder around, but it's starting to affect her confidence and self esteem that she can't manage to resist the blood after nearly two months. I suspect she's getting some other scents that wouldn't be present if she were really threatening a human. Why don't we try it with me as the human, and see if she can't do better?" The smirk on his face made me want to resist this new plan, but his eyes conveyed real concern. If my… attraction were causing me to emit scents that were compounding the draw of the blood, that was wholly unfair to Esme. And I couldn't really deny the likely truth of Edward's assertion. As much as I tried to control my thoughts when I was at home, there were other more visceral and subtle signs of my attraction that could not be controlled.

"I won't be able to respond as quickly if she lunges for you," I warned, knowing that his gift had spared me several bites.

"I'll manage."

"Just, don't run. If she gives chase, a whole other set of instincts come into play. You have to be docile—"

"—I know, Carlisle. I _am_ a vampire, too, you know," he said, smiling.

I looked back at the paper that I'd abandoned reading a half hour ago. "I'd heard something to that effect. Okay. We'll try your suggestion. A change is often helpful, anyway. I'll bring some blood tomorrow in a sealed tube and you can soak a cloth in it once we're settled in the clearing."

He nodded, accepting the plan, and followed my thoughts as I deliberated on how to secure a vial for the blood when supplies were being watched so carefully. That thought led to the argument I'd had with Dr. Jones yesterday, and that thought led to remembering that Michael had been demoted last week for something that hadn't been his fault.

"It's getting worse," Edward said quietly.

I ran my hand over my face, trying to cleanse the thoughts from my mind as I might wash my face. I met his eyes, and knew he could see the weariness in mine. "It is. When it's finally time to leave this place, I'll be ready. I'm grateful it brought Esme into our lives, but the hospital is growing unbearable. The administration —"

Edward held up his hand abruptly, turning his head to the east.

"Esme, come inside the house, quickly!" he called.

"Edward?"

"Someone's coming."

"A human?" Esme asked as she entered the house. She took a deep breath and held it, waiting for his answer.

Edward was silent as the tension mounted in the room. Esme moved toward me as we both watched him stare out the window.

His eyes flickered to mine. "Not human. Like us. Well, a bit like us."

Human-drinkers, then. "How many?" I asked, alarm building in my mind as I looked at Esme, all paint splattered and lovely. We were not ready for this. Nowhere _near_ ready for this.

"Just one. He — I think it's he — is confused by our scents, but he's making his way here."

"Do we know him?"

"I don't know him, and I don't recognize him from your memories. He doesn't recognize your scent."

"Do we have time to get positioned to meet him away from the house?"

Edward turned away again, concentrating, and then shook his head grimly.

"We'll make a united front on the porch, then. Show our strength in numbers, meet him from an elevated position." My head was spinning with tactics as I grabbed both their wrists and dragged them through the front door. From the porch I could smell him — definitely _him_ — and something raged inside of me. Edward looked at me, worried. I could hear his steps on the brittle leaves of the surrounding forest. He wasn't hiding his approach, which either meant he did not want to be perceived as a threat, or he was _supremely _confident_._ I wouldn't know until I talked to him, assuming I was given that chance.

"Get behind me a bit," I whispered, maneuvering them close behind me on either side, Edward a bit more forward than Esme. It was important that this stranger understood that I was the one who spoke for our family, but I wanted Edward clearly visible, too. I would need his help, if this turned into a battle. I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye.

"He knows we're here," Edward whispered.

I released their wrists and tried to make myself taller — physically embody all the authority I could. Almost directly next to me, Edward crossed his arms over his chest. His face held less concern than concentration as he tried to understand our visitor. I felt Esme come closer, the front of her right shoulder touching the back of my left arm. It felt good to know exactly where she was without looking. The three of us watched and listened as the footsteps grew nearer. We could see movement now in the leaves and branches at the forest's edge. Esme's hand wrapped around my wrist, and I took it in my hand just as the stranger stepped into the clearing, taking a few steps beyond the trees.

He stopped abruptly and stared at us with bold, ruby eyes.

* * *

AN: Thanks to my beta, Coleen561, for her comments. Thank you so much for reading.


	27. Chapter 27

_AN: I have a long one for you today. I'd like to thank my beta Coleen651 for her excellent notes; any mistakes at this point are my own. Thank you to Nixhaw for maintaining the playlist (songs for this chapter are being added, including the Chopin Prelude with chord progressions that make the knees weak), __Malianani__ for her excellent insight,__ and __Eeyorefan12__ for general support and encouragement. I own nothing, in case that isn't perfectly obvious.  
_

* * *

CPOV

The stranger's eyes widened as they met mine. He glanced at Edward, and then at Esme, approaching a few more steps with a look of wonder on his face. Esme's hand tightened around mine, and my protectiveness flared to the point that my vision blurred red, as if I were ready to hunt. I tried to swallow down my fury that he would look at my family, my _Esme_, with that look of awe. He stopped again, staring at me now with apprehension.

"Carlisle, calm down," Edward whispered beside me so quickly and quietly I doubted even Esme could hear. "I see nothing in his mind that's threatening or…" he glanced in Esme's direction "…covetous."

_Edward, do not give away your gift—_

As if on cue, the stranger stood a bit taller, looking almost stately, and then bowed with a small flourish of his hand. My anxiety immediately ebbed a bit.

"Good day," he called as he stood. "Please excuse my intrusion. It is rare to come upon the scents of so many of our kind concentrated so thickly on the landscape. I could not resist enquiring. How come you to spend so much time near a human's house?"

I bristled slightly that he had not offered his name. "This is my home, and that of my family," I answered somewhat stiffly.

"Your _family's_ home?" His expression was quizzical as his gaze swept across the property and came to rest again on the three of us where we stood, united. He stared openly at my face, and then seemed to catch himself. "Forgive my impudence. I meant no harm. I am called Garrett."

I relaxed my stand slightly. "Carlisle Cullen." I saw Edward nod slightly from the corner of my eye. "This is Edward and Esme. Do you travel alone, Garrett?" I asked, attempting to salvage a polite conversation while assessing our risk.

"Aye." He paused before continuing. "I confess, I was pleased to come across your scents. You are the first of our kind I've met for many months, and I'd welcome the chance for conversation. And I'm very curious, now. If this is your home, do you not move on? You are not nomadic?"

I stifled a smile. "We all must move on eventually, but I am usually able to stay in one location for five or ten years." His eyes grew wide, and Edward chuckled softly next to me. He looked at me sideways and cocked an eyebrow.

_Shall I invite him? Is it safe, do you think?_

Edward nodded slightly, and I turned back to Garrett, who was watching us curiously.

"It has been a long time since we've had visitors, Garrett. I would offer you some company and a place to rest and bathe, if you like, but I must ask you not to hunt here."

"I would not trespass on your hunting ground," he started.

"No, no… you misunderstand. Or rather, I haven't been clear. We are bound to this town. I work at the local hospital." Garrett's expression grew shocked. "We do not hunt the humans. We must maintain a low profile and cannot afford unexplained deaths."

"Where do you hunt, if not in the local population?"

"In the local forest. We drink from animals."

"Indeed? So, your eyes…"

I nodded.

"I've never met a vampire with golden eyes. You will prove to be an interesting acquaintance, I think, Carlisle Cullen. I agree to your terms. And truth be told, it has been a long time since I bathed in anything but a river."

Edward laughed openly. "I think we have a bit of warm water to spare, don't you Carlisle?"

"Oh, I imagine so," I said with a small smile, and Garrett matched it and started walking toward the house. "I could even loan you some clothes so you have a chance to wash the ones you are wearing, if you like."

"That would be most welcome," he said, grinning. "I'm sure you'll be happier to have me in your home once I'm a bit cleaner."

He climbed the steps of the porch, and Esme's hand tightened around mine as she shifted to stay behind me as he approached. He noticed her anxiety and slowed, looking at me with concern before addressing Esme. "Thank you, all of you," he looked up briefly to include Edward and me. "I really do look forward to the conversation, as well as the bath."

"Come on, then. You can use my bathroom." I ushered him into the house and watched as he slowly took it in with wide eyes: the library, the piano, the easel, the Chopin Preludes drifting softly from the gramophone. Esme hung back with Edward as I led Garrett to the back of the house, past my study and the kitchen to my bedroom. He watched as I pulled out a pair of slacks and a shirt and handed them to him. I heard someone run up the stairs as I turned back to Garrett. "There's a bath tub through here. Use anything you like. I'll be in the library when you get done. Just bring your dirty clothes with you, and we'll get them taken care of."

"Thank you, Carlisle."

I left him and returned to the library, where Edward was putting away a record.

_Is Esme all right?_

He looked up at the ceiling and nodded. "She's changing out of her paint clothes."

"Ah." I frowned slightly. I didn't like the idea of Esme coming down to meet Garrett in one of her flowing, gossamer dresses. Edward smirked and rolled his eyes.

"Is there something you want to hear? I thought I'd play for a while, since we have a guest."

I smiled. Edward played every day. The guest had nothing to do with it.

"Your choice, as always."

He settled at the piano, and strains of Mozart's Piano Sonata 11 in A major drifted into the library. It was calm and quiet; it sounded like domestic tranquility. I went into the library and tidied my books and placed Esme's pencils in a jar next to her sketchpad. The room was remarkably ready for a guest. Esme had taken over cleaning of the house a few months back, saying that it was the least she could do to contribute to the household. I didn't feel comfortable with her cleaning up after me, but Edward indicated that she wanted to feel useful. He explained Esme's desire to contribute to our household – to be an equal partner in our domestic happiness. And so things became very tidy. The layer of dust on the bookshelves that Edward and I had so cheerfully lived with had disappeared. I started a fire in the hearth, and had just settled into my chair when Esme came in, dressed in a clean, modest cotton frock.

I smiled warmly at her as I started to move toward my chair, but then thought better of it. Instead, I moved to the sofa, and waved her over to sit by me. "Is that new?" I asked.

"Part of Edward's packages from Columbus. This is meant for painting in, but I haven't used it yet, so it's clean."

I nodded, trying not to let my relief show regarding her dress choice. Not that it mattered. Esme was lovely in whatever she wore. She sat next to me, closer than she normally would. "Are you okay?" I asked quietly.

She looked at me sheepishly. "I'm going to have to get over my fear of strange men at some point."

I took her hand in mine. "Edward said he is not a threat," I whispered. "It's always better to have more allies and friends, even if they are not quite like us."

She nodded and tightened her fingers around my hand. It was growing surprisingly comfortable, the feeling of her hand in mine. A moment later, Garrett walked in, looking vaguely uncomfortable in my clothes. His hair was still wet, and he'd tied it into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. It had been a long time since I'd seen anyone wear their hair in such a style. It made me wonder when he'd been changed.

"Better?" I asked.

"Aye," he answered, smiling. "Soap is such a marvelous invention." I chuckled as he began rummaging through his jacket.

"Do you need help with those?" I asked.

"As soon as I clear the pockets," he said, removing a package wrapped in what looked like oilcloth. He wadded up his pants, shirt, and jacket and looked up at me.

"Let me—"

"I'll put them to soak," Esme said, standing. She squeezed my hand before standing and taking the pile of clothes.

"Thank you," Garrett said as Esme was already moving out the door and toward the kitchen. He turned back and looked around the library. "Quite a collection you have, here."

"Oh, I can't take credit for all of this. Those two bookshelves are Edward's and that one is Esme's," I said, pointing around the room.

He walked over to Esme's shelves. "Art, architecture, mathematics, physics, art history…"

"Our Esme is an artist," I said, and couldn't help the pride seeping into my tone.

He raised an eyebrow and moved to another bookcase. "Biographies of Mozart, Beethoven, Vivaldi. Musical movements of the Nineteenth Century. Histories of Europe and America. Novels. Books in Italian. Mark Twain."

"Edward is a musician, but has many interests."

"I see. And you, Carlisle? If the rest of these books are yours, you have varied interests as well."

"I'm a doctor. And an avid reader of literature, and student of languages."

His brow furrowed. "So you were a doctor before you were changed?"

"No, no. It took me over a century to build up the tolerance to the smell of blood. But it was worth it. I like helping people."

His expression was an odd combination of disgust and awe. "You willingly spend time with them?"

I nodded.

"You are a curious vampire, Carlisle Cullen."

"Yes, so I've been told," I said with a dark humor. "But I like my existence." The Mozart piece Edward was playing ended, and I heard the soft scrape of the piano bench as he got up.

Garrett nodded. "And so you changed Edward and Esme? Forgive me if that is too bold. They smell of you; you are clearly their sire."

"Yes, I am," I nodded, worrying slightly that this stranger was learning so much about us. I wondered vaguely if he could possibly be a spy for the Volturi, checking on me, displeased that I was making more vampires like myself. Edward leaned against the library doorjamb, meeting my eyes and shaking his head ever so slightly.

Garrett turned to him. "You play very well. And I'm not sure I've ever seen such a large piano before."

"Thank you. Carlisle bought me my first piano when I was still a newborn, but I bought this one for myself when we moved."

"Your home is part library, part concert hall, and part art gallery. I confess, I am a bit in awe. This life you've carved out for yourselves is so different from mine. I can see the appeal, but I'm not sure I could stand to stay in one place long enough to acquire so much. It's comfortable, but also tethers you. Your prized possession barely fits in the room; mine I can carry in my breast pocket," he added, waving the package that was still in his hand.

"What is that? A Bible?" Edward asked, making his way into the room. Esme ducked in behind him and made her way to the far side of the sofa, giving Garrett a wide berth before settling next to me.

Garrett grinned at Edward and began unwrapping it. "Not _the _Bible, but a bible of sorts. These writings are sacred to me, anyway." Under the oilcloth was paper, and under the paper a very old book. _Common Sense_ by Thomas Paine. It actually looked—

"Is that a first edition?" I asked in wonder.

"Given to me by Tom himself on the eve of the Revolution."

"You knew Thomas Paine?" Edward asked, leaning forward to look at it.

"Aye. We met at the Man Full when I was still working at the docks. He was a rabble rouser, and could argue so well he'd have you convinced by the end of the night that up was down and black was white… sooner than that if the ale was flowing freely at the tavern. I never knew a man that could inspire folks like Tom. He worked all the taverns. He'd be down at the Man Full of Trouble one night, talking to us workers, and then up at City Tavern the next talking with the landed men of the Continental Congress. And I daresay he was equally comfortable in both places. He was a great man. He _could have _convinced you of anything, but he only ever argued what was in his heart and mind as the truth."

"So you fought in the Revolutionary War?" Edward asked.

"As a Patriot. I was turned during a night battle, and woke three days later on the edge of a deserted battlefield."

"You woke without your sire?"

Garrett nodded. "Luckily my sense of myself was intact enough that I went in search of the red coats for my first meal. I'd like to say I was still fighting for the freedom of my brothers."

My eyes grew wide, and I knew that Edward was thinking of his desire to go to war as a youth. "You're lucky you didn't attract the attention of the Volturi," I said.

"Aye. I've managed to stay beneath the notice of the tyrants in Italy, even before I realized who they were."

"Tyrants?" Edward scoffed, looking at me curiously.

Garrett's anger flared. "They claim to rule our kind, and yet I never voted for them, did you?" Edward shook his head. "Did you?" Garrett asked, turning to me.

"No," I answered, only a hint of incredulity entering my tone. The idea of voting for the Volturi was beyond ludicrous. They found no value in the opinions of others, even those they counted among their friends. I would know.

"Anyone who thinks he knows better than I how I should live my life, and would force me to his view, is a tyrant. I have seen how they dealt with those who disagreed with them in New Mexico. Scores of our kind were left burning in heaps on that battlefield: the guilty and innocent alike. They are not rulers over me." He eyed me carefully, daring me to argue the point. I found I could not.

"I once considered Aro a friend, but managed to put an ocean and the better parts of two continents between us to avoid his meddling. He does not approve of the way I live, though he finds me harmless and somewhat amusing. I am safe from him, I think."

"Does he know about Edward and Esme? He may find you less harmless if you are converting others to your views."

I looked at Edward and felt Esme's hand slide into mine. "I informed him that Edward had joined me after his newborn year. I have not yet written the brothers about Esme."

He looked back and forth at us, and I felt the strength of unity between Edward, Esme and myself. And suddenly, I knew I would fight for them if forced — even to the death. I would not be separated from either of them unless it was by their own choice, certainly not because Aro disapproved of us. I looked at Garrett, and the fear and determination must have been written on my face.

"I do not think they will be troubled by the three of you, Carlisle. But take care. You may think they are your friends, and I hope you are right, but I wouldn't count on it. Don't tempt their interference."

I nodded, and was struck by how quickly I felt Garrett was a kindred spirit. We might have different values and ideals, but we both just wanted to be free to live our lives as we saw fit, not hurting others… Garrett's meals aside.

"I'm glad you stumbled upon our scents, Garrett."

"Aye, me too, Carlisle, me too."

Edward's brow was furrowed. "Do you still only drink from your enemies, as you did during the war?"

Garrett paused, looking at me and then at Edward again. "I confess, the world has changed so much in the hundred and forty years since I was transformed, that I no longer understand human politics. All our former enemies are friends. I… I no longer have any enemies among the humans. Certainly the British are no longer the enemy."

"So how do you choose?"

"The way any predator does, I suppose. I choose the weak ones that are unlikely to be missed, who won't be defended by their peers. I try to make it quick."

Edward looked deeply unsatisfied with that answer, Esme seemed horrified, and my mind drifted to the way the Volturi lured their prey to them, finding the trusting, the gullible. The weak. And, truth be told, Edward and Esme and I often did the same when prey were plentiful. Of course, our prey did not have names, families, or passions. We left no orphans. An awkward silence descended over us as I faltered for something lighter to speak about. I had my principles when it came to hunting, and I'd raised Edward and Esme in the same way, but if I held it against every other vampire that followed their instincts, we would indeed be alone. And perhaps having Edward and Esme with me gave me the courage to look for common ground with other vampires, rather than focusing on the one profound difference. Having Garrett here did not feel as threatening or isolating as it might have five years ago. I was no longer a complete anomaly. Edward looked at me with a grim expression, but a curious softness in his eyes. Then he turned to Garrett and spoke again.

"Do you play chess, Garrett? I'm sure we'd all enjoy playing with someone whose strategies we don't already have memorized."

Garrett expression changed from wariness to relief as he grasped for the change in topic. "I've heard of the game," he said wryly. "I could be persuaded to play you."

The next two days flew by. And despite the fundamental difference between us, I found I truly liked Garrett. He was funny and passionate about his ideals, and respectful of the fact that he was in my house, often deferring to me before answering questions. He also kept a respectful distance from Esme, though that was in part through her actions: she rarely left my side.

Edward and Garrett got on famously. Edward was enthralled by Garrett's tales of the revolution and then his travels through the Continental America, Canada, and Alaska. Garrett was constantly moving, and just as our stationary civilized life seemed romantic to him, Garrett's wanderings seemed romantic to Edward. Edward played for him and shared his musical loves, from Chopin to Joplin. Garrett let Edward read his copy of _Common Sense_, and Edward let Garrett read his father's book of Mark Twain essays.

Garrett and I spoke of history and philosophy and our respective knowledge of the Volturi. He was morbidly curious about my time in the castle, and I was made newly aware of the details of the southern vampire wars. I'd heard rumors, but Garrett's intelligence regarding the battles was much more detailed — and much more disturbing — than what I'd heard before. I could not see the civilized brothers that I thought I knew in the version of events he described. Only the most ruthless aspects of Aro's personality seemed apparent, a brutality I'd seen glimpses of, but which always seemed tempered with his civility. It was little wonder that Garrett viewed them as tyrants.

Even Esme stopped flinching when his red eyes met her. She still stayed close to me much of the time he was in the house, and I couldn't help but feel pleased that our instincts were so synchronous. I wanted her nearby while this new male was in our midst, despite the fact that he'd shown no signs of threatening or pursuing her. She seemed to want the security of my protection, whether it was necessary or not. And a part of me swelled with pride every time Esme walked past Garrett or Edward and came to sit beside me, as if it reflected on me that someone _so beautiful_ and sweet would seek me out. Of course, I knew she was merely staying close to her sire in a new and still uncomfortable situation, but I couldn't help the thrill I felt when she slipped her hand in mine. I couldn't help the way my breath hitched when she stood close enough to press her shoulder against my arm, or I felt her presence mere inches from mine.

And truth was, I _wanted_ her to approach me for something other than security, though I knew it was still wrong to cherish such hopes, and even vague or momentary indulges in these thoughts threw my mind in such disarray I could barely breathe. It felt safe for me to touch her when she needed comfort; it seemed safe when she approached me and slipped her hand in mine. But all along the edges of those touches, something dangerous and thrilling lurked.

His second evening with us, I was telling Garrett of my history, and the significance of some of the things on the wall of my study. His lips formed a thin white line when looking at the painting of me with the Volturi, but he actually shook his head slightly when I showed him my father's cross. I raised an eyebrow as I studied him.

"I'm sorry, Carlisle. It's obviously dear to you. I just have little use for organized religion of any sort."

"As do I," came Esme's voice from the corner behind me, and Garrett and I both turned and stared at her. It was one of the first utterances she'd volunteered in his presence. And more importantly, after nine-months of living with her, it was something I _did not know_. It was very unsettling to have it revealed in front of someone outside the family.

Esme looked away, clearly wishing she'd held her tongue, but then looked back, almost defiantly. "Before, when I was human, my pastor — the pastor who had preached to me of love and peace from the time I was a mere child —married me to a man I'd barely met, whom he _knew_ to have violent tendencies. I barely survived that marriage, actually, finally running away after years of saving and feeling… worthless. I never forgave my pastor for sacrificing me like that."

There was silence for a moment as her words sunk in. I started to move toward her when Garrett's voice, soft with emotion, cut in.

"Aye, the church can prove to be quite imperious in its own capacity. I'm sorry you were used so ill, Esme. You have my admiration for getting yourself out of such a terrible situation. No one should make you feel worthless." His eyes darted to me briefly. "I trust your current living arrangements are more to your liking, and you are free to direct the means of your happiness."

She looked at me as she answered, "Yes, much more to my liking." She smiled and looked back at Garrett. "I'm very happy, here with Carlisle and Edward, but I'm afraid even their excellent care, with all that it's healed, will not make me trust the church again."

I moved to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, giving her what I hoped was a comforting embrace. I wasn't sure how to answer, otherwise. It was not as though I frequented church anymore, but it seemed a shame for her to turn her back on all her childhood teachings because of the mistake of one man. Still, that mistake had led to a vast amount of suffering. I couldn't know how I'd feel in her place, but I suspected my faith would be seriously tested as well.

"I still may not know any of you particularly well," Garrett said, "but from what I've seen the last few days, Esme, it is obvious you are highly valued in this home. I daresay your wishes are respected."

I rubbed my hand up and down her arm. The clock struck five, and I sighed, tightening my arm around her one last time. "Will you be okay?" I whispered.

She nodded and stepped back.

Garrett was clearly confused. "Carlisle, what's happening? Is the time significant?"

I smiled. "My shift starts in an hour. I need to get ready to go to the hospital."

"You really do that?"

"Of course, I told you I did. Why would I lie?"

"I don't know. You just haven't left since I arrived, and I thought maybe it was an odd joke."

I huffed in amusement. "No. I had a few days off, but now I need to go to work, or call in with an excuse." I looked at Esme, wondering if I should call in. I didn't like the idea of leaving her alone with Garrett, despite the fact that I liked him. And she seemed rather vulnerable at the moment. She looked at me as if she could hear my thoughts, and raised her chin up, showing me her strength. It wasn't defiant, though. She didn't like to be coddled, despite my instincts to protect her. And of course, my patients needed me, too.

Garrett straightened. "Perhaps I should leave, then. You won't want me here while you're away." His tone clearly indicated that he wanted to stay, but was deferring to me as coven leader. I didn't consider us a coven, though; we were a family, and though my instincts might be telling me to stay near Esme, my mind could find no real reason for concern. And Edward had assured me that Garrett was not a threat in any of the ways I might imagine.

"We've all enjoyed your company, Garrett. There's no reason to cut your visit short because I have to return to work. I'll be home in nine hours. You are welcome to stay."

He nodded solemnly, but warmly, and left my study for the library. I went back to my rooms and got dressed quickly. Edward appeared at my doorway.

_You're still sure it will be fine…_

He nodded.

_If he does _anything, _Edward…_

"I know."

_Just, protect her. She's not fully trained. Part of me doesn't want to leave, but you seem so sure._

He walked over to me and placed his hand on the back of my neck, as I always did when I was trying to get him to meet my gaze. We were mere inches apart when he whispered nearly silently, "It will be fine. He's so concerned about offending you when it comes to Esme he'll probably not speak to her while you're gone. And I'll know the instant that his thoughts change. You can trust me to take care of her, if it comes to that. It won't, but if it does, he won't have a chance."

I nodded. "I'll be back by three. Call the hospital if you need me home earlier."

They all stood the porch and watched as got into the car. As I drove away, I heard Garrett ask, "He's really going to spend eight hours with bleeding humans?" Edward laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, leading him back into the house.

It was a long nine hours.

I hadn't been this worried about Esme since her first months with us. I felt insecure and fretful, over what exactly I wasn't sure. Garrett was a new friend, but all evidence pointed toward his trustworthiness. Edward's gift, which I'd come to rely on extensively, showed him to be a man of honor, as had all his words since he came to my house. My fears, amorphous and vague, were founded on nothing, and I pushed them down as I began my rounds, and chastised myself for creating problems where none existed.

For plenty of problems existed at work. My patients were worse off, and the medications I'd prescribed had been changed without my authorization. As I reviewed the charts, I saw that all changes had been authorized by Dr. Jones. I went in search of Michael.

"Did he confer with you before changing the medications on my patients?"

Michael looked up at me from the chart he was reviewing. "Which patients?"

"Three of them. Mrs. Abbott, Miss Blumberg, and Mr. Friedman. I was treating them all for infection before I left, and in the last two days their antibiotics were discontinued and they were put on medications for inflammation and fever reduction. And they're worse, all three of them. Did he talk to you first? Is there some reason to think there is not a bacterial infection involved?"

Michael shook his head slowly. He checked the pulse of his sleeping patient, jotted a note in the chart, and hung it at he end of the bed. He stood, looking at me grimly. "Show me."

I took Michael by each of my patients, showing him the symptoms that indicated infection, knowing it amounted to weak evidence. There were other symptoms I couldn't share: an odor common to all three of them, vaguely sweet and rotten, that I knew he couldn't smell; a slight discoloration of the sclera that I knew his human eyes couldn't detect. But even without those signs, I thought the evidence of infection was clear enough to warrant aggressive antibiotics.

"I don't know, Carlisle. It seems reasonable to me to treat them with antibiotics, but these symptoms aren't really classic textbook cases."

"No," I admitted, " they aren't. But it's not like we never see anything new in medicine. I just lived through the Spanish Influenza. I know you weren't hit hard with it here, but in Chicago, it was devastating. I tend to regard the odd cases very seriously, especially when I have three that I can't explain."

"Understandable. So, to answer your question, no: Dr. Jones didn't confer with me, despite the fact that I was in the next ward and the listed as second doctor on all three of these charts. I did have two surgeries, so it's possible I wasn't available, but each of them only lasted a few hours."

"Is he in today?"

"No, I don't think so. Dr. Anderson's in charge."

I grimaced at the news. Dr. Anderson was unlikely to reverse a decision of his superior, even if I laid out all the evidence. "Okay, thanks Michael."

"Carlisle?" I looked up just as I was about to leave the room. Michael's face was thoughtful. "When you've finished your rounds and gotten that," he motioned to my charts, "sorted out to your satisfaction, could you take a look at bed three in ward two? It might be similar."

That wasn't good. "I will."

By the end of the day, I was at my wits end. Dr. Anderson saw no evidence that the patients were actually worse, and I had to admit that the decline was subtle, and largely not possible to be seen by the human doctors around me. Bed three _did_ appear to be a similar case, but again, this was determined to be inconclusive, despite both Michael and I arguing the case. It was a relief to finally get in the car and head home, after carefully changing my clothes and putting my soiled linens in a container in the trunk. Esme was doing her and Edward's laundry, but my work clothes were still being washed in town. I stopped at the florist on my way home, continuing the months-long tradition of providing Esme with fresh flowers for the house. The selection was limited this late in the fall: just a few rhododendrons and late hydrangeas. Still, we'd have to switch to hothouse flowers soon, and Esme always seemed to prefer what was in honest season.

As I drove home, the one set of worries replaced another; the hospital was left behind, but the concerns I'd had for Esme and Edward at the beginning of the day, which I'd been largely distracted from during my shift, moved again to the forefront of my mind. Suddenly the four cases of an unknown infection and meddling administrators seemed like mere nuisances. If Garrett weren't as honest and good as we all thought…

Esme jumped from her tree branch and ran after the car as I passed. I stopped, but then I caught her wide grin in the rear view mirror, and relief flooded through me. She could not look like that — happy and carefree and _lovely_ — if anything had gone wrong today. I saw her wave me on, and I continued down the road with her following behind, sketchpad tucked under her arm, pencil in the bun of her hair.

"How was your day?" she asked, as I got out of the car and collected my medical bag. I handed her the flowers while she bounced on the balls of her feet, as if her barely-contained joy made her want to run on and on. All that energy and excitement made her look vaguely like a schoolgirl, despite the wisdom of her face and the curves of her frame. I searched her eyes for a moment, wondering if I _should_ tell her about the frustrations of my professional life. But what would it accomplish? She could do nothing to help convince Dr. Jones of his errors, and it was still such a novelty for me to see her so happy and unencumbered, I couldn't bear to burden her.

"It's better now," I said smiling. "How was yours?"

"Good. Edward explained to Garrett that I was in training, and the three of us sparred for a few hours."

"Oh really?" I asked, not sure that I liked the sound of that at all.

"Yes, Garrett showed me some new moves that he says will work better for someone of my stature — things taught to him by a vampire he met in New York called Makenna."

"I see," I motioned toward the house so we could walk together. "Was it helpful?"

"Oh yes. I pinned Garrett once and _nearly_ pinned Edward. Then they didn't want to fight anymore, so I went outside to draw and they stayed inside." She had a triumphant gleam in her eye, and it washed away any irritation I might have at imagining her _pinning Garrett—_

"She did _not_ almost pin me," came Edward's voice from inside. I chuckled, looking sideways at Esme, who just grinned and nodded conspiratorially.

We walked into the house, and I set my bag down on the table as Esme went into the library to put her supplies away and collect the flower vase. She gave me a warm smile as she passed on her way to the kitchen. I entered the library to find Edward and Garrett sitting on the sofa. Garrett was in his own clothes again, clean now. His jacket might not have been his original, from over a hundred years ago, but I could see now that the cut was of a similar style. I wondered if it made him feel more comfortable, to be in clothes that matched the era that he was from. I'd always tried to blend in, adopting whatever new style made me invisible in human society. But even now, after all this time, I sometimes caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and couldn't fathom what I was wearing.

"Good day?" I asked, settling across from them in an armchair.

"Aye," said Garrett, "though you were missed. We needed another sparring partner. And I've heard rumors that you've actually pinned this one," he said, pointing at Edward.

I tried to hide my smile. "Only a few times, and I usually had to play dirty."

"Braggart," Edward muttered under his breath, and then smiled at me.

"So how were things at the hospital? I confess, I find the thought of purposefully going among humans, some bleeding at that, and resisting the urge to feed… well it seems an odd way to choose to live."

"Yes, I imagine it does," I said, easily seeing it from his perspective. "But I like helping people, and because of my stronger senses, I can often help where other doctors can't." My mind returned to the troubles at the hospital, and I saw Edward's brow furrow.

"How are your patients? The ones you were treating for infection?"

I sighed, not sure if this conversation would bore Garrett and trouble Esme. "Worse. I haven't been able to convince the Chief of Staff that they really _are_ infections, and he discontinued their medications. I understood rationing medicine during and after the war, but I'm not sure it's still necessary."

"Dr. Jones seems to go out of his way to discredit your decisions."

"Well, I don't really mind him making my life difficult. After all, I have solace at home now," I said smiling softly. "But I'm afraid his decisions are endangering patients, and that's much harder to accept."

"Maybe we should just ask Garrett to eat him," Edward said with a smirk.

_Edward!_ I glared at him as Esme simultaneously admonished, "Edward!" She carried the vase back in the room with the new flowers arranged, and set it on the table next to the window.

Garrett, to his credit, raised his hands in capitulation. "Oh, no. I don't think I should get involved."

"But you said yourself you couldn't determine your enemies among humans anymore," Edward added, pressing the issue. I wasn't sure if Garrett knew him well enough to recognize his humor. I needn't have worried.

"So I should just adopt Carlisle's enemies?" he asked. "Nay, I think Carlisle would not want to resort to violence until all diplomatic options had been exhausted. I'm afraid that's not really my strength." He looked at me, sheepishly, as if he were worried at my reaction of him continuing the joke. I wasn't sure why. Edward was the troublemaker.

"I suppose you're right," said Edward.

"Dr. Jones isn't my enemy. I try not to have enemies, but I certainly wouldn't count other doctors among them. I'm not sure why he dislikes me, but it doesn't really matter. Relationships with humans are invariably transitory, and in this case, it's a good thing."

Garrett looked thoughtful. "Do you get attached to them sometimes, the humans you treat?"

I couldn't help the way my eyes drifted to Esme. "Yes, it's happened. It makes it harder to leave, when the time comes." She met my eyes, and I would swear she could see right into my core and innermost thoughts. She looked away, flustered.

Edward cleared his throat. "So what do you want to do on your last night, Garrett?"

"Is he leaving? Are you leaving?" I asked, turning to Garrett.

"I think it's best. I'm starting to thirst, and I want to put a good distance between myself and your town when I finally need to hunt."

I nodded, the difference between us suddenly very pronounced. "I appreciate that."

"Besides," he said with a smile, "my legs grow restless. And I've enjoyed my time here. I'd like to be welcomed back someday, so I shouldn't overstay my welcome."

Garrett chose to stay in, and we spent the evening in conversation, playing chess, listening to Edward play his favorites. Esme even gave him a small sketch of the four of us together sitting around a chessboard, for him to take with him. It was only a few inches on a side, "travel size" she called it, but there was detail enough to show the camaraderie among us.

"Thank you, Esme. I shall treasure it, as I do all of your friendships."

She disappeared upstairs and Garrett and I watched Edward play. We listened to the end of Edward's concerto, and clapped as he ended with a flourish. He stood and closed the key guard. The clock struck four.

"Esme, are you ready?" Edward asked.

"Yes," she said, standing in the doorway in her hunting garb: riding pants and a white blouse, her hair pulled back in a loose bun. It still stunned me that such boyish, seemingly unflattering clothing could prove so…distracting.

"Edward's taking me hunting. Garrett," She said walking over to him. "It was lovely meeting you. I hope we see each other again some day."

Edward approached him, and put out his hand. "I'll miss our talks, Garrett. I have to admit, I never expected to meet a civilized gentleman with ruby eyes."

"And I certainly never expected to meet a concert pianist who would stay up all night debating the intricacies of self-determination while beating me at chess," he said, taking Edward's hand and shaking it warmly. "I will search for your scent in my travels and hope our paths cross again."

"Carlisle, have a good day," Esme added, touching my arm as she passed. "We'll see you after your shift." I smiled as I watched them leave on their familiar route.

Garrett turned to me. "You are a fortunate man, Carlisle."

I smiled. "I am."

"I admit, I'm not sure I could chose to live like this. I have wandered for so long, it is part of me, I think. But I see the appeal. And I am grateful for your hospitality."

"We've enjoyed your company. I'm glad you found us."

"It's been a pleasure to meet you and your family, Carlisle." His eyes lowered for a moment. "Mind what I said earlier, Carlisle. Take care of sharing the news of this life with the brothers in Italy. I counsel you as a friend. I would not like to see their attention focused on you or your co… family."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "I'll consider your advice. And I hope you consider me a friend, too. You are welcome any time, though I admit, we will not be here much longer."

"Aye. Esme's newborn year is almost at an end. Edward was explaining that you'd get her acclimated to human society again and move somewhere she wouldn't be recognized. Will she work among humans too?"

"Only if she wants to. Her decisions are her own."

"Even if she doesn't want to stay with you and Edward?"

"Of course. That decision especially. Though I…I _hope_ she will stay."

He smiled. "From what I've seen, I don't think you have to worry."

He shook my hand and walked toward the door. "Fare well, Carlisle Cullen, until our paths cross again."

And he was gone.

Over the next month, things got worse at work, and better at home. For one thing, despite the fact that Garrett was no longer around, Esme continued to sit a little nearer to me, offer me little touches as she walked by. It was all innocent, but it spoke of an emotional intimacy that I cherished. She wanted to be near me, and I wanted to take care of her and make her world as beautiful as she was.

Her combat skills improved as she perfected the moves that Garrett showed her, things I hadn't even seen in the Volturi training. It was a relief, too, to know that she could truly defend herself, and her confidence radiated from her in everything she did.

She also improved tremendously in her blood training, the visit from Garrett seeming to spur her desire for control. She had liked him, but she wanted to be like me. And though she'd always said as much, it was a relief to see that she remained with me, strove to be like me, even when presented with an alternative way of life as embodied by Garrett.

We ran at night to a town to the north, where Esme would not be recognized, and we walked among the houses of sleeping humans. And Esme was able to smell them and resist. The following week she could walk through the town during the weak, clouded daylight, when the streets were busy with shoppers. She clung to my hand, and her expression was strained, but she did not hold her breath, instead speaking to me and then breaking into a glorious smile when we reached the end of the road.

"That wasn't so hard. May we do it again?" I readjusted her hand on the crook of my arm and turned us around, heading back toward the heart of town, grinning almost as broadly as she was.

After that, we walked through a town every night, or day if I was not working. We roamed over 200 miles so that we could maintain some anonymity in these small towns, but we never went to Ashland itself. And slowly Esme's hand stopped clutching my arm, and merely held it. Her breathing and conversation became less strained, and she relaxed, until these strolls were no longer part of her training, but were rather an enjoyable part of our routine.

And I delighted in her progress, her glow of achievement, her laugh as these exercises that had seemed so difficult in the beginning became second nature. She positively shone with confidence and pleasure. It was almost to the point that she no longer needed me. My role as her mentor was coming to a close, and though I mourned it, the possibilities this change afforded were delicious and new. And my heart and mind and body were all reacting to her in ways I couldn't deny. Edward had always told me that my mind was like an organized house full of tidy rooms, but when Esme stood too near to me, it was like all the windows were open and papers were flying everywhere. It was chaos… utter, wonderful, thrilling chaos, and I had no idea how to control it.

I had to be careful touching her, because I could tell my hands to brush a stray strand of hair away from her eyes, but they wanted to bury themselves in her hair, comb through it, feel it glide like silk between my fingers. I could tell my fingertips to remove a bit of chalk from her sleeve, but they wanted to run up her arm and down her back, mapping every curve. They could not be trusted, especially when she turned her smile to me, and lit up my entire world.

She was absolutely radiant when she smiled. Her passion — her inner fire — illuminated her and warmed all around her, and I felt the effects keenly. Sometimes it was a gentle glow, like that of the hearth that warmed me to my core. Sometimes it held an edge that ignited my soul, until I feared I would be consumed. It set my own body against me, reminding me of things that had little to do with whatever conversation Esme was trying to have with me at a given moment. The memory of the feel of her in my arms would hit me at strange moments. In the past, that had only happened when she was frenzied and wild, or wracked by grief. I'd held her to control her, or to comfort her. But now my mind betrayed me with fantasies where she was in my arms under quite different circumstances. This dream Esme smiled, whispered, touched. She acted on the intimacy that had been growing between us in the waking world, but was as yet chaste. Not so in my dreams, and I found myself literally shaking with longing, my arms achingly empty. And as my heart and mind hungered for her, even when she was right before me, my body strained for her just as much.

Esme's smile. The music of her laugh. The way she tilted her head when she asked me a question, exposing the curve of her neck. The way her hair curled at her shoulder looking soft and inviting. The way the sun illuminated her dress from behind when she waved goodbye to me in the mornings when I left for the hospital, exposing every curve and dip… I was in an almost constant state of subtle arousal. And occasionally not so subtle. It was embarrassing enough that Edward saw how she affected me. He was surprisingly quiet on the subject, much to my relief. But sometimes the signs would be more physical, and I was forced to excuse myself to the forest and tend to my body's needs as quickly and efficiently as possible. It was maddeningly frustrating. After centuries of nearly perfect control in so many aspects of my life, I had almost _no_ control over this.

By the time the last of the leaves fell, I was parking the car just off the road on my way home and relieving the pressure of my desire before going home to her. And it was not simple lust. I could no longer deny the name of my feelings for her. My spirit and body were moved by her so completely that I could only conclude that I was in love.

It was terrifying. It was delicious. It was torture.

She was young, and still needed my protection. Still needed me to be selfless in my treatment of her, despite the selfish needs of my body and desires of my soul. What's more, with her past, it occurred to me that she might _never_ want a physical relationship. As hard as it was becoming to ignore my desires, I could never betray her trust or her friendship. I could not let her see that I had desires that might make her uncomfortable, or worse yet, fearful. I could not let her see that I resembled Charles in _any_ way. My needs would always come second to hers. I would keep her well. Keep her safe. Keep her happy.

As the pleasant and excruciating tensions grew at home, decidedly unpleasant tensions grew in the hospital. Patients were dying, and we still didn't know why. I was more and more frantic to prove my theories, to find the answers, to show that these were infections so we could treat them appropriately. There was no evidence that this would turn into anything like what we'd experienced in Chicago, but the memory of that epidemic was still too fresh for me to rest easy as I watched the same symptoms play out over and over.

So even as I felt Esme's touches on my skin _hours_ after I left her presence, I also felt lives slipping through my fingers. Even as her presence in a room made me feel physically warmer, though I knew that to be impossible, the hospital felt cold with death and fear and animosity. Even as my hands longed to bury themselves in her soft hair, knotting and coiling and binding themselves up forever, they were instead buried in the bowels of hopeless surgeries and the decay of disease.

Ice decorated the tree limbs, and the moon rose as I walked toward the house after a particularly difficult shift at the hospital. I was late, and I had not called, and I knew that Esme and Edward were likely concerned. I clutched the journals and papers I'd gathered at the library, praying an answer would be found within.

I entered the house, and Esme met me at the door, but her welcoming smile fell as she looked at my face.

"What happened at the hospital?" she asked.

I set the papers I was carrying down on the entry table and shook my head. I did not want to discuss the hospital. Edward entered the foyer as I shrugged off my coat.

"Carlisle! You're covered in blood!" Esme cried. And I knew my eyes looked hollow as they met the fear in hers.

* * *

_AN: Sorry, two cliffies in a row is a bit mean, but adding more at this point wouldn't have worked. The good news is that I have about 3k words of the next chapter written, so hopefully this one won't take as long to resolve._

_And I hope the lack of a battle wasn't too disappointing. The "Man Full" was a real tavern of the Revolution, and the building is still there in Philadelphia. The full name was Man Full of Trouble, which seemed appropriate for our rabble-rousing Patriot. I have links below for the tavern, and an image of the original Common Sense. Just remove the spaces. Thank you, as always, for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts._

_ www . ushistory tour / man-full-of-trouble . htm_

_ www . indiana . edu / ~liblilly / history / common-sense-larger . html_


	28. Chapter 28

_AN: You know that Mature rating I've been teasing you with for the last 27 chapters? This one probably earns it. Just saying._

From Chapter 27

_"Carlisle! You're covered in blood!" Esme cried._

* * *

Chapter 28

CPOV

Esme actually stepped back as she took in the state of my shirt. I looked down. It had been quite soaked, though was mostly dry now.

"I'm sorry, Esme. That was inconsiderate of me…" I was at a loss to know what to do. Perhaps Edward could fetch me a clean shirt and I could change outside so that Esme wasn't so exposed to the scent. I looked at him, but Edward was looking at Esme, shaking his head in answer to a silent question. He and I had these silent conversations about Esme all the time, but somehow it seemed more irritating when I was the one being discussed wordlessly. They both turned their guarded gazes to me, which I returned with a troubled stare.

"What's all that?" Edward asked, nodding at the paperwork.

"New research papers I took from the university library. I need to review them before returning to the hospital. I intend to start immediately." I looked at them, and they both wore amazed expressions.

"You went to the library… like that?" Esme asked.

"I kept my coat on."

She looked at Edward again, and I grew annoyed. "Edward, would you get me a new shirt? I want to change and get started."

There was a silence as they both gaped at me. Really, this was becoming too much.

"Edward, would you please—"

"No," Esme said.

I turned to her, stunned. "No?"

"No. You are not reviewing all those papers right now." Her voice was soft, gentle, but held an air of authority I'd never heard. "You are going to tell _Edward_ what he should look for, and _he_ will start reviewing them. _You_ will meet me upstairs." Esme turned on her heel and calmly climbed the stairs. I watched, completely bemused, as she drifted upward. The room was quiet but for the soft click of her heels.

_Have you ever seen her like that before?_

Edward huffed a laugh. "Not toward you," he said quietly.

He watched my gaze as it followed Esme until she disappeared. After another moment, I heard the bathwater start to flow.

"You'd better tell me what I'm looking for, before Esme comes back down to scold us both."

I turned my gaze to him. Was this really my home? Since when did Esme scold? I walked over to the papers in a daze, collected them, and moved to the table in the library, where they could be spread out. I explained to Edward the symptoms I had seen in the hospital; I'd brought home papers on infections and parasites. All my senses told me it was an infection, but I couldn't rule out other possibilities yet. He said he'd take care of it, and nodded to the stairs. I paused, looking at him.

_Edward?_

He raised his eyebrows in response.

_What did she ask you before, when you shook your head?_

He smirked and then deliberated, clearly debating whether he should divulge something Esme had asked privately. He sighed, and then whispered, "She asked if I'd ever seen you like this."

The same question I'd asked about her, and Edward had indicated that he hadn't. I didn't feel different. What were they seeing?

Edward nodded at the stairs again. I sighed and started to climb, not understanding my home… or even my own thoughts.

I paused at the threshold of Esme's room, seeing she wasn't there. It seemed a long time since I'd been in this room. It had been months since she spent all her days lying on that bed. Months since my only view of her was through the gossamer haze of the sheer curtains cocooning the bed. Months since I'd longed to be inside that cocoon, where I could see her clearly and touch her and feel as though I weren't an outsider.

"In here, Carlisle." Her voice came from the attached bathroom. I walked through her room to the door at the far end and saw Esme place a vial of bath salts on her shelf. She then leaned over the tub, stirring the water with her arm. She'd already lit several candles and placed them around the full bathtub. The air was thick with steam and smelled of lavender. I tried to clear my head.

"Esme, why did you light so many candles?"

"I know you prefer natural light. The clouds are heavy today, and night falls earlier these days…there's not much light from the window. I wanted the room to be warm for you."

"You're wasting them."

"No, I'm spending them… you told me I could spend them as I chose, that you didn't want me to ration anything."

I _had_ told her this, but I didn't mean for her to spend them on me… I'd bought them for her.

"I can bathe downstairs, Esme."

"My tub is larger, deeper… you'll be able to relax." I just stood, watching her as she finished her preparations. Her bare arm looked even more pale where it was submersed elbow-deep in the water. It moved gracefully back and forth, and the water rippled around it, currents of subtle opacity curling and spiraling and finally disappearing as the last of the salts dissolved into the water. She shut off the tap and turned to look at me, flinching slightly. Standing, she walked over to me, her hand twitching and rising slightly, as though she wanted to touch my face.

"Carlisle, what happened today?" she asked tentatively.

I looked away. "It's a long story, Esme. I'd rather not go into it." It was distracting, being in this room. It had been mine, before Esme joined us, but now it was definitely hers. It was so feminine: cluttered with vials of oils and salts, candles and flowers. Scents everywhere. Curling, hypnotic scents…

"I'd like to hear…"

My brow furrowed. Esme never asked about the hospital. She usually tried to keep me from doing hospital work at home. She and Edward both preferred that I leave it behind.

"There's nothing you could do about it, Esme," I said gently, still not understanding her sudden interest.

"I know there's nothing I could do about the situation, but perhaps there's something I could do for you."

"You do enough for me just being here, Esme. You and Edward both. Just your presence in the house is a comfort."

She huffed in exasperation, and then sighed, nodding. She turned toward the door, and it seemed like she was going to leave, but she stopped herself and looked at me again. I watched her as she struggled for words. She looked pained. She spoke gently, but her voice trembled.

"Carlisle, why create a family for yourself if you won't let us help you? If you won't share your burdens?" She was watching me intently.

"I don't need help."

"Is that so?" she asked sharply. I blinked, surprised at her tone. What was the meaning of this? She seemed angry. No, something else… but something fierce and glowing.

"You're… you're _worried _about me?" I asked, struggling to understand her looks, her words.

"_Yes!"_ She tilted her head back, as though savoring a small triumph. I found myself drawn to the curve of her neck, wanting to bury my face there. Not to kiss, though Lord knows I'd thought of that before. Not to drag my teeth along the scar that marked the place I first made her, though that had crossed my mind in the past as well. No, I wanted to bury my eyes against her skin. I wanted to surrender. I was tired. So tired. But I couldn't show that sort of weakness.

"But, Esme, I'm fine…"

"Carlisle!" she said sternly, looking into my face again. Then she closed her eyes, and looked for all the world like she was praying for patience. _But Esme doesn't pray_. She opened her eyes and tried again. "Carlisle," she said softly, reaching up hesitantly to touch my shoulder, just a whisper of a touch. "_Look_ at yourself." She put pressure on the back of my shoulder, turning me toward the mirror. I gasped.

Not only had blood soaked the entire front of my shirt, but also there were tiny droplets in my hair and on my face…probably too small for a human to notice, but clear as day to my family. But worse, much worse, was the haunted expression on my face. My eyes were flat, my cheeks drawn, not in thought but in…shock? Panic? I hardly knew. I barely recognized myself. No wonder Esme was worried.

"Esme," I whispered, meeting her eyes in the mirror, "what should I do?"

She sighed in relief, and I saw a bit of her usual warmth shine through the worry in her eyes.

"Get clean. Have a soak, and try to relax…try to process part of whatever happened today. When you're done, come downstairs, and Edward and I will show you anything we've found in those papers. After that, if you like, you and I can go for a walk, and you can tell me what the _hell_ happened today." My eyes grew wider as she cursed…it was so unlike her.

"Here are some fresh towels. I made that water very hot, Carlisle, it should be good for at least an hour." She looked at me meaningfully.

"I understand, Esme," I said, smiling slightly. "You've convinced me."

She finally graced me with her smile and nodded. "Leave those clothes outside the door, and I'll set them to soak." I remembered the discomfort she must be feeling.

"I'm sorry, Esme, about the blood. I haven't meant to make you uncomfortable."

She shook her head. "I'm fine, Carlisle. I'm just worried about you. Try to relax." She started to leave, pausing at the door, "And Carlisle, if I see you downstairs before an hour is up, I'll march you back up here myself."

I believed she would.

She closed the door softly behind her, and her footsteps faded down the hall.

I got undressed and washed the worst of the blood off in the sink. I listened to their voices, making sure they were both downstairs before opening the door and setting the bloodstained clothes outside. I found my robe, folded neatly by the door. I took it and walked over to the tub, noticing the care she had taken in preparing the bath for me. It was a gift, I realized. It was something she felt I needed, but also something small enough that I could be convinced to receive it. Like Edward sitting at the piano to comfort me with my favorite music, this was Esme's way of showing care.

And I'd almost turned it down.

I'd have to be more gracious about accepting her gifts in the future. I stepped into the water, hissing at the scalding temperature, and lowered myself.

Oh, _this_ was not like my baths. I did not merely sink into the water; whatever she had put in this divine fluid made it feel slick, luxuriant. The water parted to accept me, envelop me… caress me. I leaned back into the curve of the porcelain, and it felt like an embrace. I let out a small moan as the sensation overwhelmed me, and then froze upright as I heard the rustling of papers downstairs stop suddenly.

"Is he all right?" came Esme's quiet inquiry.

_Edward… _I warned.

"He's weary, " he answered her in a hushed tone. It was true; I did feel weary… though it had nothing to do with the moan that had escaped my lips. "I'm going to put on some music for him…"

I heard him expertly prepare the gramophone, and then Beethoven's Seventh Symphony wafted up through the floor and walls. I closed my eyes. Another gift, this time from Edward.

_Thank you, Edward._

I could no longer make out their words, and knew that Esme at least could no longer hear me. Edward was, as always, a gentleman. I felt grateful for the mild privacy.

I submerged myself into the water, scrubbing my face and hair, anxious to finish the chore of bathing so I could enjoy this new pleasure of soaking. I did not, as a rule, indulge in such a thing. Alone for so long, I'd dedicated myself to pursuits of the mind: the pursuit of medicine, to help those who were not immortal, who suffered disease; the pursuit of philosophy, though it seemed at times that less progress had been made answering _those_ fundamental questions than the mysteries of medicine. There was purity in these pursuits.

I indulged in my carnal need for blood; that was necessary. But other visceral needs and desires I'd always shunned. Having so little memory of my mortal life, it was difficult to tell which were natural, and which were caused by the hedonistic monster within. So my first reaction was always to refuse them all.

Esme did not. Months before, while the summer ebbed, and the greens of the forest grew dull, I'd watched her from my study window as she lay in the grass. Her eyes were closed, and she lay on her back with her skirt and her hair fanned out, absorbing the warmth of the fading sun, running her hands gently over the blades of grass, simply for the pleasure of feeling them caress her skin, it had seemed. She had done it for hours, not moving any part of her body except her hands, swishing over the blades of grass, until clouds blocked the warm rays of the sun. She had sighed regretfully when she finally rose to come back inside.

She sought out sensation: the breeze in her hair, the sun on her face, the lapping of water on her ankles at the lake. She caressed tree trunks just to understand their textures, and then spent hours drawing it. She found beauty in the world, yes, but she also found pleasure in it. Real, visceral pleasure. She did not see its pursuit as a weakness.

I scrubbed the last of my body as I heard Esme's footsteps enter her bedroom. I froze again as I heard her collect the clothes outside the bathroom door and then retreat downstairs. Finally clean, and knowing that I would be left in peace now until I came downstairs of my own accord, I leaned back again into the porcelain embrace and closed my eyes. I tried to mimic the position Esme had lain in the grass, knees to one side, as I tried to let the warmth of the water soak into me, as she had let the sun's rays soak into her. I swished my hands gently as she had, imagining blades of grass, but instead feeling the silken water slip through my fingers. My movement caused gentle ripples in the water that stroked my skin, and finally some of the tension of the day began to ebb.

I'd been so frustrated, so _angry_. Losing patients was something I could accept, but losing them because I was helpless to convince a colleague was excruciating. It was terrible to know that medicine was being hoarded in a cupboard when it could be used to save someone, all because the chief of staff was unconvinced of the infection — an infection I could _smell_ with my own senses — but for which there was no known diagnostic test. It was infuriating. And we had lost so many today, and they had passed so violently. It had been agonizing. I'd felt so alone, as I went to the library in search of any new analytic tools that might convince Dr. Jones. He seemed to me only a heartless administrator, attempting to save money when people were suffering in my ward. _He_ had not come home with his shirt soaked in blood; with it splattered through his hair. _He_ had not frightened his family into uncharacteristic action. I breathed heavily, squeezing my eyes closed against the vision of my last patient on the operating table. Too much blood. Too much death. A choked groan escaped me as I tried to force the vision and my sense of helplessness away. The gentle waves continued to massage my neck and shoulders, releasing the tension stored there. In time, I calmed. The scalding water had scorched away my pain. My body was now warmed through and relaxed, and water still felt like slick warm fingers stroking and caring for my entire body.

My thoughts turned to Esme. She was changing, and I was so wrapped up in the trials at work, I was missing it. She had started her life with us so lost, so vulnerable, but today she was a fierce pillar of strength. Somehow, it changed everything.

God, she was beautiful. Not just her face, or her body, but _her_. I'd always thought so, even when she was too young for such thoughts to be entirely appropriate. I remembered our first meeting. She was so fearless, so _perceptive_. She'd seemed to look into my depths, and reflect truths back at me that I'd denied for so long I was blind to them. Through her observations, I saw the truth of how hollow my existence had become. The thought of her had haunted me for years, and though I resisted attraction to her barely pubescent body, I'd clearly been drawn to her mind and, if truth be told, her eyes.

Then when I'd found her again, she was beautiful, womanly, and utterly broken. Any attraction I'd felt had to be tamped down. She needed me as a sire, as a mentor. Even when Garrett arrived, and she started showing me more physical affection — slipping her hand into mine, sitting beside me, standing near enough that our shoulders touched — it all seemed to be geared toward her security. She drew strength from me to supplement her own quiet strength: the strength of a survivor. Still it had affected me. For weeks I'd grown increasingly distracted by her… by the memory of her hand in mine, or a look from across the room. I'd been skulking off to the woods, relieving my desire so I could better hide it from her, guilty that I was satisfying my own lust with thoughts of her loveliness and fidelity. It felt almost dirty, desiring her like that when she still turned to me for protection and security.

But tonight, she hadn't needed my protection or support. Tonight she had offered me hers. And _that_ was enticing in a completely different way.

I rubbed my hands over my face and through my hair, enjoying the feeling of the water running back down my face and the more substantial touch of my own fingers on my scalp. I closed my eyes, sinking deeper into the embrace of porcelain and luxuriant water, allowing my hands to rest gently on my chest, still waving them gently to illicit subtle waves in the water that stroked my skin. I remembered how Esme's concern had made her touch my shoulder _just there_, where the tub now pressed into me. How her eyes had met mine. The gentle curve of her neck when she turned toward me, asking to share my burdens. Today _I'd_ been lost, but with Esme's touch, I no longer felt that way. I felt… cared for, renewed. I felt… oh, God. I closed my eyes. Desire coiled in my abdomen, and I arched as it radiated through my body like a wave, urgent and demanding. And I _didn't _feel the usual guilt: the shame that had haunted me on my forays to the woods, those furtive attempts to deal with my body's needs efficiently before coming home to face her.

Esme's touch had not been in any way erotic, but it _had_ been intimate, as her eyes had met mine in the mirror. It had been the touch of an equal, not a dependent. Esme had come into her own, and suddenly her touch had a potential I'd not allowed myself to truly contemplate before this. I had spent my entire existence wishing to feel useful, to be needed. But this was new. As I thought of Esme's touch, turning me and making me see myself clearly, I realized _my_ need for _her_. Who else could have made me see myself so quickly? Who could have convinced me so easily that I was wrong? I _needed_ Esme. The weight of this truth settled on my chest as I drew a ragged breath.

Perhaps I should feel guilt at the reaction of my body, but I couldn't bring myself to. While satisfying carnal needs in the past had been empty, reeking of sin, of exploitation, this felt different. My need for Esme was branded on my heart and on my mind; I could not fault the rest of my body for following suit. Not when the water that caressed my skin had first been caressed by Esme's bare arm. Not when this very porcelain had felt the weight of her own nude body only hours earlier. Not when I could close my eyes and see her caressing the grass in the sunshine, delighting in the senses of her own body, and then see that same arm as it stirred the water… the hot, slippery, sensual water...

My hand slipped down my torso until I palmed my erection, hips jerking forward in spite of myself. I drew another shaky breath and slowly stroked my length, relishing the feeling, as well as the ripples that curled around the rest of me. I found a slow, steady rhythm, and felt my senses expand: the music, the scent of lavender and salts and melted wax and Esme, the steam still rising into my dipped face, the warm darkness behind my eyelids, the soft murmur of Esme's voice, the intimacy of being in her room, her tub, her water… and the building tide that was rocking my body. My closed eyes saw the water stirred by her arm as I felt it stirred by mine. I heard her breath as I held my own, turning inward now; all my senses focused on a spot at the base of my spine. Her scent, her voice, her eyes, her arm, her heat, _herherher_… I trembled, and then my body tensed and pulsed, and my vision was seared with white heat as I bit back my growl and released.

Slowly — slowly — my vision returned to the outside world, and I sank back into the curve of the tub, letting out a low shaking breath. Relief and pleasure formed a warm heavy weight on my chest, and though a small part of my mind chastised my behavior as irresponsible and possibly disrespectful, my predominant emotions were reverence and contentedness. Esme's voice continued downstairs, nearly drowned by the music. Edward's was deeper and softer as he answered her, and I was relieved that she seemed completely unaware of my activities. Edward, of course, could not be ignorant, and I could only hope he was getting better at tuning out our thoughts, or was in a forgiving mood. Either way, it was too late to do anything but apologize when we were alone.

I lay perfectly still now, relishing the delicious relaxation that had settled over me. Soon I would have to leave this bath, this delightfully feminine room, and return to the medical problem at hand. I fiercely hoped they'd found something in those papers for even though I wanted to find a solution, I no longer felt that I would happily spend my time at home poring over medical research. Esme wanted to take a walk, hear what had happened. I was inclined to satisfy her curiosity — tell her anything she asked, truth be told. Her instincts had already helped me so much; I felt so much more able to face my dilemma, just knowing that she was there to support me.

Of course, even if they'd found a potential diagnostic tool, there was still the issue of getting it implemented. I sighed and ran my hand over my face. It was time. I was sure I'd been up here longer than an hour. I smiled as I got out of the tub and wrapped myself in my robe…even Esme should be satisfied with time I gave my bath. I looked in the mirror, confirming that the haunted look I'd seen earlier was gone, drained and cleaned the tub, and retreated to my room to get dressed.

I entered the library, clean and dressed and combed, and stopped abruptly as I noticed how closely Edward and Esme were standing as they looked at the papers spread out on the table. Jealousy surged, and I stamped it down. It was ridiculous, irrational. I knew their relationship, and there was nothing threatening about it. Edward took a step away from her to make room for me between them, and then turned to give me an inscrutable look. He raised an eyebrow, and I sagged under his gaze.

_I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me._

He shook his head slightly, catching Esme's eyes, and she turned toward me.

"Oh, Carlisle. You look much better. Come see what we've found. Well, Edward found it really."

She took a step away from Edward as well, making sure I had space to settle in between them. There were several piles on the desk, but the two closest to the edge were short, possibly one paper each.

"What have you got?" I asked, placing my hand on his shoulder, hoping it made up for that irrational surge of emotion, as well as anything he might have heard earlier.

He studied me for a moment, giving me a stern look that I knew meant we'd be discussing this later, and then turned toward the papers.

"You said that Dr. Jones was thinking it wasn't infection because early symptoms didn't include a high fever."

"That's right. By the time fever sets in, it's too late. To be honest, we don't have much to fight it with, anyway. But there is a small supply of powdered molds that occasionally help in these cases, and he won't release them, saying that if it were a real infection, fever would be the first sign."

Edward nodded. "There are two papers in that mess you brought home that might help. This one," he said, picking up the paper on the left, " details an outbreak of Tularemia from 1912, with many of the same symptoms—"

"— It's not Tularemia," I said quickly. "You're right, many of the symptoms are the same, but Tularemia _would_ have fever. And I've seen it before; I know what it smells like."

"Okay," Edward said, setting the paper aside. "Then the best I've got are hints at predicting an infection prior to fever setting in based on blood sedimentation rates." He picked up the other paper and handed it to me. "This study shows that some infections increase the number of cells in the plasma, and they settle out at a faster rate than normal blood. It's a really small difference, though. It would be difficult to discern."

"I'll be able to see it," I said as I read over the methods section of the paper. "And we have all of these supplies, except… they used a dairy centrifuge to spin down the samples. That's a unique application. This could help though." I looked up at Edward, grateful for his help, and even more grateful for his understanding, or if not that, his discretion.

I saw the beginning of his smirk as he looked away. "Good. So I'll just clean these up while you two, er, get some air," he said, waving his hand slightly, whether in dismissal or in search of his euphemism, I wasn't sure. He pulled the paper out of my hand as I turned toward Esme, who was already backing toward the door. When my gaze met hers, and she was sure I was following, she turned and headed outside.

She ran ahead, and I made a gentle chase, unsure if she was heading somewhere specific or just letting me stretch my legs. Her skirt billowed behind her as we ran, flapping and waving me on. Beckoning. Mesmerizing. And I followed the lure unquestioningly, until she launched herself into a tree and began climbing, and I realized we had circled around to her tree, and we were a mere half-mile from the house. I climbed, watching as her pale skirt disappeared around the trunk and into the higher branches. I followed, passing the branch where we had sat together and I had held her while she cried. We climbed into the upper boughs, the ones that I could glimpse her sitting in from my chair in the library if the wind was right and blew the branches just so. I found her settled on a branch near the top, and there was just enough room for me to sit right up beside her. We were above the canopy, this tree being taller than the others around it, and the view was stunning. I could even make out —

"The hospital. You can see the hospital from here."

She nodded, and I knew she was showing me this on purpose. "It always made me feel better when you were on your shift, if I could see where you were. It's silly, I know, but it helped me when I was scared."

I studied her face. It was so determined. "You aren't scared now."

"No," she acknowledged. "I am worried about you, though. Things haven't been good at the hospital for a long time, I know, but you never say anything, and now," she looked down, but I knew what she meant. Now I was so troubled I was unaware of my appearance in public. It was dangerous, and not just to me. "Edward won't tell me anything other than you are arguing with a colleague. I know you don't like to talk about work when you're at home, and I know I probably can't help, but will you let me try? Will you at least tell me what's happening?"

Her gaze met mine with this last request, her honeyed eyes trusting, but troubled. The confidence that had emanated from her earlier ebbed, and her fingers twitched nervously.

She was asking me to trust her and wasn't sure I would. Oh, Esme. I remembered the times she'd asked in the past, and I'd told her not to worry, that there was nothing she could do. It struck me as very patronizing. I'd treated her like a child, or a patient when she had tried to offer help as a friend. And while there may have been a time when protecting her had been appropriate, she clearly didn't need or want it now. And I rather liked the confidence I'd seen earlier and the comfort and intimacy it implied. I didn't want to undermine it.

And so I nodded, and slowly told her everything. How things had seemed fine when I first arrived, but Dr. Jones soon began to single me out. He'd question my assertion that I could perform certain surgeries, and then seemed disappointed when I'd succeed. He'd question my diagnoses, reverse my patient care decisions, and interfere with my ability to practice. He clamed he did it so we would all be treating patients in a similar manner, but he routinely made me change to others' techniques, rather than having them emulate mine, despite my better record.

As I explained my frustration, Esme slipped her hand into mine and twined our fingers together. She listened intently, watching my face, but I found myself studying our fingers as I spoke. Hers were slender and delicate, but strong. I'd watched them before, wielding a charcoal pencil or a paintbrush. Dancing. Creating. They were fingers that drew life from inanimate objects. Mine were stouter, but still nimble. The fingers of a surgeon. Our fingers, entwined, fit together perfectly. Every gentle pressure of her fingertips was welcome, every press of her palm comforting, as I explained the pain of watching patients suffer. I described how his interference became more pronounced, and more damaging. Any attempts to discuss it with him only made things worse.

"When was he made Chief of Staff?" she asked, cradling my hand in both of hers, now.

I looked up, contemplating. "About a year before I arrived," I answered, not knowing why it might matter.

"And he's an older gentleman? With a family?"

"In his forties. And yes, he's got two boys and a wife at home. They have a house in town that he bought before I got here."

Esme smiled like she knew a secret.

"So what do you think? What do you advise?"

Her smile faded, and her eyes grew wide. Had I said something wrong? "What is it, Esme?"

She shook her head, smiling again almost ruefully. "Sorry, your question… just startled me. I'm not used to people asking my opinion."

I thought she'd wanted me to ask.

She sighed, squeezing my hand slightly. "You know, I often think about how different my life is now compared to a few years ago," she continued. "There are the obvious changes, of course. Those don't surprise me any more, but this…"

"What?" I asked softly.

She paused, considering her words for a moment. "Let's just say, there were many things Charles Evenson wanted from me, but my opinion was never one of them."

I swallowed down the venom that rose up whenever his name was mentioned. I calmed myself by raising my free hand to her temple and brushing back the loose strands of hair that were threatening to cross her brow. "Well, I am no Charles Evenson, and I'd like to know what you think."

"No, you're not," she said, meeting my gaze and tilting her head slightly into my touch. "What I think… well, I don't know Dr. Jones, but I've known men like him, and I think he's scared of you."

That seemed highly unlikely. "He really just treats me with contempt, Esme, not fear. And I'm very careful at the hospital. He doesn't think I'm anything but human."

"Oh, I don't think he fears that you're a mythological creature," she said smiling in a teasing manner. "I think he fears that you're after his job."

"But I've never given any indication that I want to be an administrator. If anything, I'm known for my disdain for paperwork."

"Look at it from his perspective. He's worked at that hospital for years, right? Slowly working his way up through the ranks, and he finally gets the top position, when this young, handsome doctor comes in who is a better surgeon than he is, is able to save men's legs after that mining accident when he'd thought it impossible. A man who is well liked, innovative, and not afraid to question a superior's methods. He's trying to discredit you, because he's afraid if he doesn't, the owners of the hospital will wonder why he's still around. His home is probably mortgaged. He's treating this conflict between you like a war, because you are a threat to his livelihood and the wellbeing of his family."

I stared at her as the words sunk in. It did make sense. I had been so focused on caring for my patients, that I couldn't seen any rational defense for the way he was acting, but this was it, surely.

"But I'm not even staying. I couldn't become director, even if I were asked. My contract is up at the end of the year, and I don't intend to renew. I thought we'd take the opportunity to move, go somewhere you couldn't be recognized so you could reenter society, if you wanted."

She squeezed my hand in hers. "Does he know that?"

"He knows my contract is up, and… oh, God, he's been trying to trump up my failures regarding procedure so he has an excuse not to extend my contract." I understood now, but it still made me furious. "I can't believe he's endangering patients over this."

"Well," she said gently, "men have been known to do extreme things when they feel their families are threatened."

I remembered my posturing when Garrett first arrived, and how Edward had had to reassure me before I escalated things unnecessarily. "I suppose that's true."

She smiled and squeezed my hand again. "Just tell him that with Edward's health being what it is, you think you need to move further south, where the winters aren't so harsh. I'd be surprised if that didn't diffuse things."

I nodded, looking out toward the horizon at the hospital rooftop. I still had a few hours before my shift started again, and for the first time in perhaps weeks I noticed the stars and the crescent moon. It was a beautiful night, and I was sitting in a treetop holding Esme's hand. How many of these moments had I not noticed because I was too wrapped up in work?

"Esme?"

"Hmmm?" She was looking at the stars too, seemingly content.

"I should ask… I mean, I haven't wanted to presume, but things between us the last few weeks…" I sighed, willing the words to just come out already. "Will you be joining me and Edward when we leave Ashland? I would like you to." I turned to look at her. "I would _very much _like you to, but it's your choice. You have your own money, and I would never want you to stay with me just because you felt trapped. For all the grief I may have caused you by bringing you into this life, that, at least, I hope you will never live through again. You have choices. I will help you settle into whatever life you want. Even one," I faltered, "where I am merely a visitor."

"Oh, Carlisle," she said softly, squeezing my hand and leaning to rest her head on my shoulder as she looked at the stars. "I can't imagine a life in which I would want to be anywhere but by your side. And I have a vivid imagination."

I huffed a small laugh. "Yes, you do…" _my love._ I extracted my left had from hers and replaced it with my right. She looked up, startled, but then settled back against me as I wrapped my left arm around her and pulled her even closer. I tucked her head under my chin, and felt her lace her fingers between mine again. "Well," I whispered into her hair, not wanting to disturb this new peace too much, "perhaps it's time that we begin making plans… for the future."

I could feel her smile against my chest.

* * *

_AN: Both hematocrits and penicillin were not invented officially until later in the decade, but there were preliminary observations surrounding both by 1921. The medical aspects of that side plot were not the most important parts of it, but I did try to be somewhat realistic. And the first centrifuges really were used by the dairy industry to separate fresh milk. The medical field only found applications later. The Beethoven symphony (or parts of it) will be added to the web play list. Thank you for reading._


	29. Chapter 29

_AN: These characters are SM's. Thanks to Coleen561 for betaing, and twitter gals Eeyorefan12 for help researching art schools and juji_loo for prereading._

* * *

CPOV

Two weeks had passed since I started my shift by giving notice, using the excuse of Edward's health. The change in the hospital was almost humorous. Dr. Jones accepted my resignation with obvious relief, which he attempted to hide under graciousness and concern. He made a big show of saying they were sorry to lose me, but that family must come first, as if we finally understood each other. And perhaps we did. Only then did it seem to actually sink in, and something akin to a mild panic took over Dr. Jones's temperament. He was losing me, and that was good in his mind, but he was also losing my skills. He quickly paired me with other doctors to make sure that they knew my techniques. Anything I'd tried to teach my colleagues these last few years over the resistance of the administration was now sought out. The paper I provided on the blood sedimentation was welcomed and put to practical use. I was suddenly a welcome, valued member of the staff.

In short, Esme had been right, right about all of it. And she was doing her best to be only a _little_ bit smug about it.

Michael was paired with me most frequently. He was a truly gifted surgeon, and would benefit the most from the addition of my techniques to his own. And he was staying; he could train the others. It was nice, actually, being allowed to spend extra time with my favorite colleague just before leaving. Dr. Jones was all efficiency and professional courtesy. He offered to write letters of recommendation (declined) and enquire after positions among doctors he knew (also declined). He suggested a going away party (reluctantly accepted) and helped with some of my more tedious paperwork (gratefully accepted).

The infection that I'd feared becoming an epidemic was already showing signs of fading from the population. We now knew what we were looking for, and isolated new patients quickly. There still wasn't much we could do for those who got to the fevered stage, but by isolating those who came in with early symptoms, and giving them bed-rest and some medicines before fever expressed itself, we were cutting down the spread as well as the severity of the infection. There had been no new deaths for a week.

I scrubbed up and changed my clothes to run my errands before heading home. We'd discussed possible places to relocate, and I'd started to write some enquiries. Edward had suggested Portland, since I'd considered that before, but I wanted to be somewhere more cultured for his sake. Edward had been in remote areas far from the concert halls of a city for years, and spent the last year almost completely isolated as he watched Esme through her newborn year. He deserved someplace a bit more stimulating, and that meant heading east. I'd sent enquiries all over the eastern seaboard, but I was hoping to end up near New York City. I hadn't been there in over fifty years, and I was looking forward to seeing things I'd only read about in the papers: Carnegie Hall, the subway train, and the new Woolworth Building "skyscraper", tallest building in the world.

The world was ever in motion, ever changing. I could tell Edward and Esme about the changes from horses and wagons to coal powered steam trains to automobiles, but some things just had to be experienced to be understood. I'd spent the last half-century in the west and mid-west of the country; I was ready to see the cities of the east, where progress marched at a swifter beat.

It was conceivable that the first of the responses to my enquiries would arrive this week, and I approached the post office with anticipation. There were four letters, one of which was from Hartford, and though I wanted to open them there on the street, I'd promised Edward and Esme that we'd open them together. I put them into the inside pocket of my coat and walked west toward the shopping district of town, where one of the florists I frequented was located. Then I could head home to Esme and Edward.

They were excited by the move. Edward was anxious to escape the isolation of the last year; Esme was still worried that she would be seen and recognized in Ashland, and longed for more freedom of movement. They'd already decided that they would pose as brother and sister. It made sense. They both had red in their hair, Edward more than Esme of course, but they looked like… like _family_. I did not look related to either of them, and that begged the question of how I would be bound to them in the story we made up for the rest of the world. I almost felt like an outsider, but one stifled glare from Edward told me the answer was obvious. And it was. Completely. Yet I found it difficult to act on it.

Esme and I had continued to share affectionate touches. She often held my hand, and I hugged her and gave her a kiss on the top of the head when I came home. We shared a deep affection. But this passion, this madness I felt sometimes, how breathless I was when she was near, how part of my mind was thinking of her every second of every day. That I hadn't shared.

Because really, how do you court a woman you've lived with for nearly a year? Who has seen you at your worst; whom you've seen at hers? Every frame of reference I had seemed inappropriate. I already brought her flowers every few days, as I had since she awoke in my house. And frankly, as autumn had faded and winter began in earnest, my choices for flowers seemed weak and faded. Even the hothouse blooms seemed anemic, just when I wanted the bouquets to be lush and heady, like my emotions.

I already brought her books and art supplies. I bought her clothes — though that seemed to fall to Edward most of the time. I couldn't bring Esme into town to see a moving picture for fear that she'd be recognized. The next closest town that had a theater was Duluth, Minnesota, over 70 miles away. I couldn't take her to dinner. All I could do was take her for walks, and tell her about my history, and ask her about anything she wanted to share. I'd been enjoying watching the last of the autumn leaves fall as we talked.

I put my hands in my pockets and hunched against the wind, walking more briskly. It would snow soon. I'd have to start wearing a scarf to blend in. I watched other shoppers as I walked on the sidewalk, noting the couples and the easy way they touched and interacted. I didn't want to hold back anymore. And when we moved, I didn't want to have to introduce her as anything but my mate… my wife. It would be untenable to live together as siblings or cousins when I _knew_ my longing could be read on my face. And we could not live together publically unless we were related. It might feel more natural to take things slowly, but now that I was sure, and now that we were moving, boldness seemed preferable. Hopefully she would be satisfied with a courtship of only a few months. I was unlikely to find a new position until February or March.

And I was sure I needed her, that I loved her, that I wanted to be with her always. What I _wasn't_ sure of was Esme. She wanted to stay with me, yes. But that didn't mean she wanted marriage or sex, both of which had been disastrous for her in the past. Both of which I seemed absurdly obsessed with.

I wanted to do something, give her something that could show her the change in my feelings. Something that would mark this transition from sire and friend to… beaux, suitor. But anything I could think of seemed far too trivial, too similar to gifts I offered her all the time, or far too meaningful. I stopped in front of the local jeweler, looking at the rows of little rings on black velvet. _That_ was what I wanted to buy her, but one did not go from sire/protector to husband in one fell swoop, surely.

Still, it couldn't hurt to look.

A little bell announced my arrival as I entered the warm shop. Glass cases formed a U, and scanning the contents, it was clear that the most expensive items were near the back of the store, at the base of the U. I leaned over the glass looking at the rings in front of me: platinum and gold, single stones and clusters. They were beautiful, I supposed, but there was a sameness to them, even as I moved my way down to the more expensive end of the case. The stones got larger, but they were all basically the same ring, with just slight differences. They seemed cold and lifeless, nothing like the light that flowed from Esme. Nothing that could capture or even complement her passion… her _fire._

The bell rang again, and to my surprise Edward sauntered into the store.

"Carlisle," he said in greeting.

I tilted my head, wondering why he was here. "Edward," I replied. _Why aren't you with Esme? Is she all right? _

"Fine," he said softly, walking over and looking down into the glass case and then raising an eyebrow up at me. "She just needed a bit of time alone."

_Why would she—_

"May I help you gentlemen?"

I looked up to see a well-dressed mustached man looking over his spectacles at me.

"Ah, I'm not sure. Just looking, at the moment," I answered, trying to look friendly instead of annoyed by the interruption. After all, this poor man couldn't hear the sentence I'd been thinking toward Edward.

"Getting a jump on Christmas shopping, or…" he noticed the case we were in front of with its rows of rings, "looking for something a bit more significant?"

I sighed, hardly knowing what I was looking for. "Just getting ideas, at this point."

He smiled warmly, a bit of compassion in his gaze. "An important choice, either way, I'm sure. Feel free to look around, I'm happy to answer any questions for you. We make the settings ourselves so we can easily customize something if you like." He stepped away, offering me some privacy.

Edward drew closer. "Getting ideas, huh?" he asked with a smirk, looking down at the rings as he leaned against the glass.

"Maybe." _Though nothing in here seems at all appropriate._

The corner of his mouth twitched. "What could be more appropriate for a proposal than an engagement ring?"

_It's the rings themselves. They could be for anyone_. Then it occurred to me that Edward probably had some sense of Esme's taste in jewelry. Surely he'd seen something in her thoughts that could steer me.

"Oh, no," he said laughing. "This has to be all you. I'm not getting involved."

I huffed and walked slowly down the case, noting that the rings got more elaborate, but still seemed the same… wrong. Maybe I just wasn't attuned to the fashions in women's jewelry. Platinum seemed like it would look better on her skin, making her look less pale by comparison, but maybe she would prefer gold. Most of these rings had diamonds, but there were also sapphires, rubies, emeralds… I had no idea what Esme might prefer.

"It's too early, anyway," I muttered. I saw him shrug out of the corner of my eye as I continued looking. Maybe this was like Edward's piano; something I would have to spend weeks shopping for before I found the right thing. Of course, then I'd known exactly what I was looking for. Now there were endless possibilities, none of which seemed right.

"Okay, I'll give you one hint," he said, moving me back toward the door, toward the less expensive rings. "Don't get her one like _that_," he whispered, pointing at a small gold ring. It was a small diamond, surrounded by a gold square, which was again inside a filigree square. It was as if someone had taken something beautiful and put it in a box, a cage, completely overwhelming it. Of all the rings I couldn't see myself buying for Esme in this store, _this_ ring seemed to have particularly inappropriate symbolism. The last thing I wanted to do was put her in a box.

_Other than the obvious, why shouldn't I get this one? _I asked, hoping for some insight into her tastes.

"She's had one like that before," he whispered, and I laughed darkly.

_Of course she has. He _would_ buy her a golden cage._

He put his hand on my shoulder, and I immediately released the tension I hadn't realized had built. I met his eyes, and he nodded at the other rings, encouraging me to look.

We moved down the case silently, and while several were lovely, nothing captured Esme's spirit to me. Perhaps I was thinking about this wrong. Perhaps the traditional ring was symbol enough and I didn't need to find something that captured her spirit. But if we were going to marry, it could be for centuries, millennia: the fashion of the moment wouldn't do; I needed something that felt like her and my regard for her. Something that she would love through the all our time together.

No pressure.

"One step at a time, old man," Edward whispered.

I looked up sharply. _It's too soon, isn't it?_

"I didn't say that. But you're making something that should be fun and exciting into a chore. If these aren't the rings, you'll find the right one somewhere else."

"There are only three jewelers in this town."

"Yes, but there are hundreds in Chicago, and my father dragged me to at least a dozen of them, each at least four times as big as this. We'll find the ring, Carlisle. But in the mean time…" he nodded to the other side of the room.

Perhaps I _should_ start smaller. I really just wanted something to show my intentions. I didn't need to propose yet, just start my courtship. I walked to the glass case on the other wall, where bracelets, necklaces and earrings were arranged in groupings. She couldn't wear earrings. She'd never been pierced, and even if she had, the change would have healed the holes.

There were beautiful cameos, intricate carvings.

"A bit old fashioned," Edward muttered.

"As am I," I answered.

He smirked as I moved down the case. Ornate watches. More cold, glittering gems. Pearls. I cocked my head as I studied them. They were almost the same shade as her skin: champagne and ivory, shimmering. Beautiful. There was a choker of pearls with a pendant of rubies. I didn't like the pendant; red did not belong on my Esme. But the pearls were beautiful, and I could imagine how they would look on her neck.

"Nice," Edward whispered, leaning his hands against the glass. His signet ring caught the light, and I had an idea.

"Mr…"

"Nelson," the shopkeep supplied, moving to the other side of the glass case "Is there something I can take out and show you?"

"That choker. The pearls are lovely, but the pendant doesn't suit her. You said that you did some custom work. Could you fashion something with this crest?" I asked, taking off my ring and handing it to him. "Something subtle, but with this design?"

He pushed his spectacles up and studied my ring. "Yes, I think there might be a few options. We could engrave this into a small locket and attach it to the choker. White gold might complement the color of the pearls better than gold or platinum. Or we could create a cameo. They aren't as popular as they once were, but my uncle is still a capable craftsman — those are his near the end of the case — and I'm sure we have some scraps of shell that would complement these pearls nicely. If you can wait a moment, I'll have a look."

"Please," I said.

He took the choker and disappeared for a moment into the back room. I looked at Edward again, grateful for his presence, but still confused about why he wasn't home.

"She's _fine_, Carlisle," he said with a quiet laugh. "She needed some time alone. She's not a newborn, and my constant presence isn't needed or wanted by either of us anymore. And you were late. And expecting letters."

Mr. Nelson returned before I could reply. The pendent had been removed from the choker, and he laid it back on a scrap of black velvet.

"I have four squares of shell available that we could make a custom cameo with," he said, laying out the pieces next to the pearls. They were each light on the top, ranging from a pure white to ivory, and darker underneath. "Cameos are made by carving into the light side of the shell, and exposing the darker background. So you need to like both colors," he added, flipping one over to show dark sienna brown. "The white ones are probably too blue-toned to match your pearls. Agate is often used in high-end cameos, but shells are common as well, cheaper, easier to carve in, and will have a bit of luster that will look better with the pearls I think. This one I could give you a deal on. The bottom color is very nearly the same as the top, and that's not what most people are looking for. A high contrast is preferred by most, and as a result I've had this piece in my stockroom for ages. But if you want the carving to be subtle — "

"— it would be perfect," I finished, picking up the shell that was ivory on one side, and a champagne on the other, just slightly darker than the pearls.

He smiled. "I was thinking the same thing. We will need to set it in a metal, and I still think white gold would be best. Perhaps we can frame the cameo out in some small pearls or yellow diamonds. Is this meant to be for special occasions, or something that could be worn regularly? It looks like a familial crest."

"It is, so we probably should keep it fairly simple. I'd like her to be able to wear it often." _Always, really._

"If you come by tomorrow, I'll draw out several designs for you to choose from, and we can discuss price. Could you leave your ring with me overnight, so I can sketch the design?"

"Of course. How long do you think it will take to make?" I asked, watching as he slipped my ring into a velvet pouch for safe-keeping.

He tilted his head, eyes unfocussed for a moment as he tallied the steps involved. "Perhaps a week after you've approved the design. The carving is not really that intricate, three days tops, and once it's complete I'll grind the shell into an oval and make the setting. We can rush it if you're in a hurry."

We discussed a few other details, and Edward and I took our leave. Grey clouds were moving in, and the temperature was dropping notably.

"So, where to now?"

"Georgia's Flowers," I answered.

"Ah yes, the azaleas were looking a bit peaked when I left. Mind if I stop in the book store while you do that?"

"Of course not, though we should hurry back so the blooms don't freeze on the way home. Do you want to ride with me?"

He nodded. "I'll see you at your car in fifteen minutes."

A half-hour later we were parking the car in front of the house, just as the first snow of the season drifted down through the gathering darkness. The house was lit, the chimneys were smoking, and it looked so _welcoming_ my steps almost faltered. It struck me how far I'd come. Only a few short years ago, only a cold dark empty house would have awaited me at the end of each day.

I protected the hothouse roses with my coat as Edward and I dashed for the door. Esme met us, opening the door wide, and I stopped in my tracks. She wore a mesh dress the color of her hair, so fine and sheer that every curve was outlined, every feature of her figure shown to its benefit. Edward ran by me, brushing the snow off when he reached the porch.

"Take your shoes off, Edward. I'd prefer if you didn't track the mud in."

"Yes, Esme. You coming, old man?"

I shook myself and walked up the steps, mimicking Edward's motions as I cleaned myself of snow and toed off my shoes. As I entered, Esme was so near and so happy to see me, it was all I could do to not kiss her cheek in welcome.

"These are for you," I said a bit more breathlessly than I would like as I pulled the roses from the protection of my coat.

"Oh, Carlisle, they're beautiful." And her eyes lit up as if she weren't expecting them. As if I didn't do this every few days. As if she were surprised I hadn't stopped yet, and it made me want to _never _stop. "Where did you find roses this time of year?"

"Oh, I have my sources," I said, and I winked — _winked_ playfully. What had gotten into me? She laughed and squeezed my arm as she took them, her hand almost taking mine for a moment before she disappeared into the kitchen.

"Thank you for lighting the fires, Esme," I called after her. "It was a nice welcome."

"My piano thanks you, too," Edward added.

"Your piano can thank me later," Esme said, entering the library with the roses arranged in a vase. "Chopin would be lovely." She set the vase on a small table by the window, and the vibrant color of the bouquet contrasted with the grey and white of the snow falling outside. "But first, did you get any letters, Carlisle?" She sat next to me on the sofa and Edward threw himself into one of the armchairs and looked at me expectantly.

"I did," I said, holding them up. "Shall we each take one, or shall I open them and read them aloud?"

"Which are you most excited about?" Esme asked.

"This one," I answered, holding up the Hartford letter.

"Then let's each open one of the others, and save that for last."

I handed out the letters and there was the sound of paper tearing followed by silence.

"Boston would have you, but it's a teaching hospital, and they warn that you'd be expected to teach a lecture class as well as mentor residents," Edward summarized.

"That's not a problem in and of itself," I said, eyes still on my own letter, "but it might take me away from you two more than I'd like. Portland, Maine has already filled their full-time position, but have stand-by positions available." I turned to Esme.

"Rochester would be pleased to interview you in person. They have two openings and would like to see which is the better fit. They also write that they can offer you the name of a realtor and someone who can help answer questions about the city that your family might have." She smiled at me, both proud and shy.

"That's probably my second choice, then, but let's see if my first looks promising." I tore the Hartford letter open, and the happiness must have been visible on my face, because they both leaned closer in anticipation. "Yes. They have need of a surgeon, and were impressed by a letter Michael wrote about my skills. Oh that's good." I looked up at them. "The only issue is that they need someone soon. They'd like me to start on the first, which means moving before Christmas."

"Not a problem, if that's the job you want," Edward said.

"It's a fine placement for me, but it's really the location that I'm excited about. It's near enough to New York City that we could visit, see concerts and plays." Both their eyes flashed with interest. "And there's the Hartford School of Music, Edward. You could audition for their program — I'm sure you'd get in. _And_ there's an art school for women," I added, looking at Esme, "the School of the Art Society of Hartford, which has courses in drawing and painting. They frequently have guest artists teach their master classes. I think we could all be very happy there."

Esme grew very still. "You think I should take art classes? Do you… do you think my control would be good enough to be around so many humans in an enclosed space?" she asked quietly.

I reached over and took her hand. "Perhaps not at first, but if we are going to be there for a decade or so, then I think you'd be able to take advantage of it." She looked worried. "Esme, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do, and you don't have to enter society right away, if you're worried about control. But I want you to have choices available to you that will interest you. I want you to be happy. I want to find a place where we can _all_ be happy for a very long time. I think Hartford might be that place. But if either of you is more interested in one of the other cities I applied to—"

"—Carlisle, I think you made your case," Edward said, smiling. Esme's expression was harder to read, but she nodded, her lips curving up just a bit. "So," he continued, clapping his hands together, "I propose you call them tomorrow to accept. We should celebrate Christmas early, and then visit Chicago on the way to Connecticut." There was a gleam in his eyes that made me laugh.

"So you can do some Christmas shopping for yourself at the music stores?" I asked.

"No," he replied, full of mock indignation. "So we can show Esme the farmhouse. And _perhaps_ I'll take her to Scott's Music, just for old time's sake." He looked at me intently, tilting his head slightly.

_And you could show me some jewelry stores your father used to frequent?_

He cocked an eyebrow and smiled.

"I'd love to see Chicago," Esme said. "I've only been through the train station when I came here from Columbus, and I was trying to hide then."

I squeezed her hand, imagining her pregnant and scared and running away. "You won't have to hide this time. Maybe we can even go night skating."

"Well, I'm going to play," Edward said, standing. "If my piano is going to spend weeks on a train traveling as cargo, I need to spend some extra time with it first. You asked for Chopin, Esme?"

"Hmm," she agreed. "Something calm."

Edward retreated, and Esme and I stood, but I clasped her hand again before she could pull away.

"Esme, is this okay with you? You were quiet when I mentioned the art school."

She looked down at our entwined fingers as Chopin's Waltz Op.69 No.2 wafted into the room. "I'm a bit scared, I guess," she said quietly, looking up at me. "Everything is changing, though the important things won't. I'll still have you and Edward with me."

"That you will," I agreed, smiling.

"And Hartford sounds wonderful. I can't believe you found me an art school… I didn't even consider such a thing."

I rubbed my thumb along her fingers. "Do you remember the first time we met? What we talked about?"

"I remember parts of it, mostly impressions of you — your eyes, how sad you seemed. I only remember some of our conversation," she said regretfully.

"That's more than I would expect you to remember of something that happened ten years before your change," I whispered, lifting my hand to brush a stray hair from her brow. "You told me that you didn't think that people from Ohio got to _be_ artists."

She laughed ruefully. "Even then, I knew."

"And I told you that anyone with your eye for the beauty of the world could be an artist. And I still believe it. You _are _an artist already; what you've shared of your work shows it. But art, I imagine, is a bit like surgery… you can only learn so much from a book. You have to live it, breathe it, be in a community where it is happening all around. I want you to have that, if you want it. You can be anything, Esme. You have all the time in the world to learn anything you like. It doesn't have to be art; that was just what came to mind first. There are universities nearby. You could study literature or writing…anything you want—"

Abruptly her arms were around my neck, her body pressed against mine, her scent—spice and old world roses and lavender—drowning me in intoxicating warmth. After a startled frozen moment, my arms wrapped around her, and I buried my face in her hair, completely unable to resist taking a deep breath. It was maddening. Exhilarating and soothing, thrilling and calming. At once like nothing I'd felt before and so familiar it felt like home. How was this possible?

"Thank you," she whispered, pulling away before my body could react in ways that would embarrass either of us. I let her go, my arms falling to my sides, feeling her absence. She was smiling up at me, her eyes bright and shining.

I raised my hand up to cup her cheek, rubbing my thumb along the rise of her cheekbone, wishing I could memorize every curve of her face with my fingers as well as my eyes.

"You never need to thank me for giving you space to be your own person, Esme."

Her smile broadened. "I know. That's what makes it so wonderful."

And then she raised herself onto her toes and kissed my cheek before running upstairs. I stood, stunned, wondering whether I'd dreamed it. I could hear Edward chuckling as he played.

The next several days became a flurry of activity and planning: phone calls upon phone calls to the hospital in Hartford, the realtor, the moving company. I made trips into Ashland to buy boxes, twine, and waxed paper to protect the most precious books and artwork from getting wet in transport. In the process, I surreptitiously visited every jeweler in Ashland, and several in neighboring towns, to no avail. Every ring looked like every other: larger, smaller, stones of blue, green, red, or white, but ultimately the same. And they weren't worthy of her. I picked up the cameo of the Cullen crest and the pearl choker. It was beautiful, and I hoped would help her feel she was one of us. But it wasn't the piece of jewelry I longed to give her.

And after several conversations with the hospital, the realtor, and Edward, one thing became clear. In order to ship the Steinway safely in December, I needed to have a heated home to send it to. It couldn't be stored in a frozen warehouse in January while we went house hunting without risking harm. And there wouldn't be time to complete a purchase on a house unless we either all left much earlier than we planned and skipped Chicago, or I made a trip while the others prepared for the move.

And so I found myself, in the first week of December, packing a suitcase so I could board a train alone. It felt wrong.

"You'll be back in week," Edward reassured. "And Esme and I will have the house packed, and we'll celebrate Christmas and then head for Chicago."

"I don't like choosing the house alone. We should all choose it. What if you can hear the neighbors?"

"Carlisle, you know what Esme and I like. You know my range. You'll be fine. I promise not to complain if the music room isn't as big in the next house," he said with a grin.

_It can't be too much smaller if your piano _and_ your library of sheet music are to fit in it._

"True. Well, I'm sure you'll find something that can accommodate us all." His face grew serious. "I know it's not ideal, but it's the only way to get everything moved in time for you to start."

He was right. I knew he was. I just didn't like it.

"Carlisle, I've got your extra gloves and travel hat," Esme said, walking in. "And your medical journals are all packed in your briefcase."

"Thank you, Esme." I placed the gloves on top of the other clothes in the suitcase and closed it, fastening the buckles. "Actually, Esme, would you take a walk with me before I go?"

She looked startled, but eager. "Of course."

We stepped into the woods, I dressed to blend in with the humans on this snowy morning, with a coat and scarf (but no gloves, not yet), she in one of her gossamer dresses — my new favorite — pale ivory that made her skin glow, embroidered with ribbon flowers. It was a summer dress that had no place amongst the snow and ice-bedecked branches of the trees: sleeveless and sheer, floating around her form in the light breeze. It made her look ethereal and out of place, like a goddess in some Greek myth, or one of the Faerie come to walk the mortal forests. Too lovely for this world… a will-o-wisp that would shimmer and fade to nothing if you got too close. But then she turned to me, her eyes warm and her smile familiar, and she was just Esme: solid and beautiful and very real. I smiled and took her hand as we climbed the ridge.

When we reached the top, a small clearing gave a filtered view of the surrounding landscape, I stopped, and she turned to me.

"I wanted to give you one of your Christmas presents a bit early, if that's okay. When Edward was nearly finished with his newborn year, I still didn't know if he would want to stay with me, or if he'd go out on his own." She squeezed my hand as I cleared my throat, surprised at the emotion the memory still evoked. "I'm very glad that I don't have to entertain the same possibility with you. But before he decided, I gave him a signet ring with the Cullen Crest on it, so he would always know that he wasn't alone, and that he could always visit…that we were bound together, to whatever degree he decided to allow."

"Like this one," she said, rubbing her fingers over the design on my signet ring.

"Yes," I whispered. I reached into my pocket and drew out the small rectangular box. "Your newborn year is almost over as well, Esme. And the future holds many changes, but some things will remain constant." I opened the little box and her breath hitched as she saw the pearls and cameo within.

"Oh, Carlisle, it's beautiful." She touched it gingerly, caressing the raised pattern of the Cullen crest on the cameo. "May I?"

"Please, allow me." I removed the choker from the box and unfastened the clasp, then reached both hands around her neck, brushing that intimate skin at the nape as I refastened it, watching as the cameo settled on the hollow of her throat. My hands lingered, savoring her soft hair.

Esme looked up at me, studying me almost shyly. "How does it look?"

My gaze scanned her neck, her lips, and finally met her eyes. "It looks perfect. Perfect on you." I looked again at her throat, bearing _my_ marks. First the faint crescent that made her, or remade her, which I could graze my mouth against right now, if I dared, and _know_ it would welcome my teeth perfectly. And then the much more civilized mark of my family crest lying in the concave curve at the base of her throat, where it gave way to bosom and heart. My thoughts were turning _ridiculously_ possessive as I leaned down to see my marks on her more clearly, the perfume of her scent nearly overwhelming me as my gaze flickered to the full curve of her lower lip, which was growing closer as my thoughts dissolved into _yes_ and _mine_ and—

A horn blared in the still morning air, and I froze as Esme started.

"Oh, you're going to miss your train," she laughed breathlessly.

"I suppose I should go then," I whispered, not moving at all.

"I'll miss you," she whispered, her breath ghosting against my face.

I closed my eyes, feeling my chest swell with strength even as my knees felt weak. "And I, you," I answered, bringing my hand forward to cup her cheek and lowering my brow to hers. "And I, you."

After several moments of breathing each other's air, she whispered, "Hurry home, Carlisle. Any house will do."

I kissed her forehead and ran back down the hill, before I was tempted to call off the entire trip.

_You did that on purpose._

Edward looked at me from the driver's seat as I climbed into the car. "I don't know what you're talking about. I try very hard _not_ to listen when you two are together. Or alone, actually."

That startled me. "Can you do that?"

He grimaced as he pulled onto the road. "Not particularly well, but I'm highly motivated, as of late."

I laughed and shook my head. _Sorry. _He never had let me apologize for that bath, despite my efforts. His hand shot up.

"It's not possible to speak too little about that bath, Carlisle," he muttered, but there was no heat and a fair amount of humor in his voice. "Just find a decent house and hurry back. She's going to be pining. It'll be awful."

I couldn't help but feel pleased at that, and he snorted.

"At least I won't have to listen to _your_ pining," he laughed as he pulled up to the station. "Do you want me to park and go in with you?"

"I'll be fine." I got out of the car and collected my bags, leaning back down to say goodbye before closing the door. "Take care of each other. I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll miss you, too, you know."

His eyes softened. "I know, old man. But we've done this before. You and I each know that the other will return after a trip. Esme's still learning that. But I'll keep her busy; there's certainly plenty to do to prepare for the move. Call when you get there so we don't fret." And it should have been teasing, but it wasn't. He was going to miss me, too.

"I will."

I turned and made my way to the platform, boarded my train alone and waited. The miles rushed past my window, and a case full of periodicals sat unread, and I just waited for the panic to set in. For that sense being alone, for the wave of isolation to sweep over me, threatening to drag me under, as it _always_ had. I waited for the feeling that the company I'd enjoyed the last few years had been a dream, and now my waking, solitary self was once again prevalent. I waited. And the feeling never came.

Instead, I felt a pressure in my chest. As if the normally thick and easy connection between myself and Edward and Esme were still intact, but being stretched taut as the miles went on. I felt myself pulled back to them, and though I couldn't act on it yet, it grounded me. It was as if the pressure in my chest proved they were real, and mine, and that I belonged with them. I chuckled as I looked out the window. Suddenly the trip seemed less like exile and more like the optimistic move it was. A trip to find our new home.

* * *

_AN: Long distance phone calls had started in the 1880s, and automatic switching was patented in 1890, though I suspect that operators were still used for calls in remote locations like Ashland. Hartford was much more forward thinking. The first coin telephone was installed in Hartford Connecticut in 1900. So it's quite reasonable for Carlisle to be making so many calls._

_I'm adding links to my profile that have information on some of the historic places referenced in this chapter, as well as a picture of the Wrong Ring. The Chopin waltz has been added to the playlist, which is accessible from my profile (Thanks Nixhaw!). I sincerely hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thank you for reading; I'd love to hear your thoughts._


	30. Chapter 30

_AN: Thanks to betas Coleen561 and Juji_loo for their excellent comments. Any remaining mistakes are my own. SM still owns everyone.  
_

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CPOV

Twenty-seven hours later Grand Central Station was behind me, and I was in a car with a realtor, driving through the Connecticut countryside, listening to his plans for the day.

"We'll be looking at mostly three-bedroom homes, Dr. Cullen, per your specifications. There are forests to the east and south of town, so we'll start near town and then move out from there. Are your wife and son excited about the move?"

"Oh, Edward is Esme's brother, actually. Their parents died of the Spanish influenza," I said, correcting _one_ of his misconceptions. Conversation shifted, and I never actually corrected his assumption that Esme was my wife. Honestly, I just couldn't bring myself to. I was careful to only use "my family" or their names. I never actually lied about it, but I never corrected the assumption.

The three houses in town were immediately rejected, and we began visiting each of the others in turn. The process was so familiar to me it would have been incredibly dull, and I would have just accepted the first remotely suitable house, were I not constantly thinking, _Is this room big enough for the piano? Where will Esme paint? _

The day proved fruitless, but I was able to call home and speak to Edward briefly when I reached the hotel in Hartford. Esme never spoke on the phone, and we never mentioned her for fear that operators were listening in. It was a common occurrence. It would be nice to finally live somewhere she could be openly acknowledged, where we didn't have to be constantly on our guard.

I walked around the town much of the night, noting the locations of the hospital, the library, the music school, the art school, and several parks. It was a nice town: small enough to feel quaint, and large enough that there would be a certain amount of anonymity.

The realtor picked me up early the next morning, driving me out to a house halfway between Hartford and Colchester. The perfectly square, white clapperboard house sat at the base of a small ridge, far down a lane from the main road, and with enough clearing of the forest around it that a garden was clearly thriving, though all but the azaleas were dormant currently. I guessed it was from the mid-1800s: a strange combination of Italianate design and steeply pitched gabled roof with a widows walk in the center of the roof, despite the fact that we were nowhere near shore. It was nearly symmetrical, all the way around, only the door in the center and a slightly larger gable in the roofline denoted the front of the house. Vines covered three sides, wrapping around windows and eaves.

It seemed perfect. It was just a bit larger than the one we had now. The entry was nowhere as grand, but the parlor was very large and would make a nice library. There was a sizable dining room that could be made into Edward's music room. There was a cellar and several bedrooms, each larger than was truly necessary.

But what sold me was the attic.

Normally I used attics for storage, or for conducting the paperwork that inevitably resulted from reinventing one's life over and over, but I would have to use the cellar this time because _this _room had to be for Esme. It was one open space, full of angles and peaks. Large gables made way for windows on each wall, showing views of the river from one, the forest from another, the garden and clearing from another still. The window facing the front of the house even had a small balcony, and I vowed to build her matching ones in the other three if she wanted them. Currently, light was streaming in from the eastern window, but as the day progressed I could see that the light would move around the room as it came in from the southerly and finally westerly windows, changing hue as it went. Vines around the windows even gave the illusion that we were perched high in a tree. I was sure she would love it.

The room was big enough for several easels, plus storage. If I could manage to bring water up to this floor so she could rinse her hands, it would be perfect. I sighed, realizing that after a century or more of avoiding it, I was finally going to have to learn some plumbing. I checked the house myself for signs of rot or faulty wiring. After all these years, I knew what I was looking for. The house was old, but had been wired for electricity by previous owners, which would save me a lot of work. There was a well that supplied the water, and the river was nearby, but not a threat. I could see us here.

The realtor was already speaking about the next house, and I quickly told him we were done. We went back to his office and drew up an offer he assured me that the sellers would accept. I got his call to that effect before I'd finished packing in the hotel, and I caught a cab back to New York City. I had half a day before I had to catch a train home, and I intended to use it shopping.

If this trip had taught me one thing, it was that when I finally introduced Esme to the good people of Hartford, I wanted it to be as my wife. Assuming she would have me. If she wouldn't — if the experience of her first marriage were enough to put it off the institution forever — then I wanted to know that, too, before we came. But I didn't have that sense. The look on Esme's face when I latched the pearl choker around her neck had chipped away at my patience for wooing. Esme and I knew each other, cared for each other. She'd welcomed my hands in her hair, on her neck. She'd been still as I admired her from mere inches away. She had not balked when I nearly kissed her. It had taught me to hope that I might be received well; that hope led to daring. And though I wanted to give her a proper courtship, I'd have centuries to make it up to her, if all went well.

The Diamond District on Canal Street in lower Manhattan was home to many fine jewelers, and I felt confident that I would be successful here. I entered a large shop and asked to see the engagement rings, and I scanned the velvet-lined trays filled with ring after ring of similar design: elegant, stylish, cold. They might suit the occasion, but they didn't suit _her._ I needed to think about Esme. Not the proposal, not the idea of an engagement, which would be captured by any of these rings, but Esme herself: warm, vibrant, strong, complex. Able to see shapes in peoples eyes, colors that no one else saw. Full of passion and fire. And that's when I overheard the shopkeep speaking with another customer: "The fire in that one contains mostly blues and greens. I have others in warmer tones if you'd like to see them."

I watched surreptitiously from a distance as they discussed the attributes of several stones, and then the gentleman was gone.

"May I see those?" I asked, before the shopkeep could put the trays away.

"These aren't engagement rings, sir. They're dinner rings."

Women needed special rings just for having dinner? "I'd still like to look at them."

He nodded slightly. "Of course. Do you want to see just the opal dinner rings, or other stones as well?"

I scanned the rings, immediately intrigued. "You said that you had some in warmer tones…"

"Yes, sir, but they're a bit more expensive." I waved my hand as I studied the rings before me. The stones were full of life, constantly changing as I altered my viewing angle. Flashing with colors. Fire. Full of surprises, like her. A moment later, another tray of rings was placed before me, and I saw it. In many ways, it was like the engagement rings I'd been considering: a center stone, surrounded by diamonds of different sizes, mounted in platinum. But this was no cold ring. The opal in the center was milky white with vibrant flashes of pink and orange, green and periwinkle. It looked deeper when you looked into it than it physically was, as if you could be drawn into unknown dimensions. It seemed alive. And yet the colors were understated. It would go with anything she wore and would not even stand out on her hand unless someone truly looked to see how unique it was. If I could have designed a ring that fit my ideal of her, this would be it.

I felt as if on air as he explained to me how the fire was formed, what part of Australia this particular stone was mined from, the size and cut of the surrounding diamonds. If I heard any of it, I didn't comprehend. All I knew was _this_ was the one: the ring worthy of her. The price gave me no pause. I'd saved money for nearly three centuries; it was a luxury to have a reason to spend it.

I walked out of the shop with the weight of it in my pocket, the burden causing excitement and a strange sensation in my stomach that was related to anticipation, with just a touch of anxiety. Still, I was so happy and agitated that I ended up shopping the rest of the afternoon, buying Esme and Edward both new winter coats and hats in the fashion that seemed prevalent here, as well as new gramophone records of the burgeoning jazz artists in Harlem. By the time I got to Grand Central Station, I just had time to call home.

"Hello?" It was Esme's voice, though she was trying to lower it to sound like Edward. He must have been outside. My mouth was suddenly dry.

"Hi," I said softly, suddenly overwhelmed by all that I wanted to say to her, all that weighed heavily on the thick silence on the telephone line. "I just wanted to let you know that I'll be home on the 3:15 tomorrow."

"Oh!" she said, surprised. "That's good. So… it's been a good trip? Successful?" She was being so careful.

"Very successful. I've missed you, though."

I could hear her smile.

"I'll make sure a car is waiting when you get in," she whispered.

I wanted to say more. I wanted to tell her — and damn the stupid, nosy operators to hell — I wanted to tell her she was going to love it here, that I couldn't wait to show it to her. That I'd not only found a house for us, but a _life._ I had so many hopes for our future. But a whistle blew, and my train was announced, and all I said was "I'll see you tomorrow."

Edward was waiting when I disembarked, carrying twice the baggage I'd left with mere days ago.

He gave me a warm hug and smile, saying, "You were supposed to buy a house, Carlisle, not all of lower Manhattan." He took some of the bags as my purchases flashed through my mind. So much for surprising him for Christmas. My mind settled on the ring, and his eyes grew wide. "You _have_ been busy. Well, we have been, too. Let's get you home."

It had snowed while I'd been gone, and a thick blanket covered not only the ground, but also the branches of the spruce trees. Other trees, those whose leaves had fallen over the last few months, glittered with ice illuminated in the warm light of the fading day. Edward chatted away with me as he turned onto the forest road to our home, and we became surrounded by bejeweled trees and mist rising from the grasses poking though the snow, as clouds of pale orange and pink and lavender drifted overhead. I wished Esme could see it; she would know what to make with all this beauty. Actually, the colors and the sparkle made me think of her ring, and I ran my hand over the lump in my jacket pocket, ensuring for the hundredth time that it was still there.

As we rounded the last bend, the house came into view, bright and welcoming as ever. Candles were in every window, and smoke flagged from the chimneys. And inside, she'd be waiting. Christmas music played on the gramophone and could be heard as we stopped the car and gathered the bags.

"Are we celebrating tonight?"

"No time like the present, old man. And we have a surprise for you."

At that moment, the door opened, and Esme was there in my favorite ivory dress, illuminated from behind so that every curve showed. Such a vision in the past would have stopped me in my tracks. But her hair was up as if to highlight the choker on her neck and my crest hanging at her throat, and I was in motion. We met at the base of the stairs, her arms snaking inside my overcoat _and_ my jacket to embrace me, and mine wrapping over her shoulders and pulling her closer. Her scent enveloped me as I felt her bury her face in my chest, taking a deep breath. And then she leaned back, her arms still around me, and looked up. I nearly kissed her then as she whispered, "Welcome home, Carlisle," but a throat cleared behind me, and the moment was lost.

"Let's get him inside and show him our surprise, Esme."

She fought her grin, tight-lipped and dimple showing, eyes sparkling. "A splendid idea." She turned, keeping an arm around me under my coat, and ushered me in as my arm draped over her shoulder, feeling perfectly natural there.

"So what is this grand surp— oh." I stopped as I entered the foyer, looking at the crates and boxes piled up in the library, and the music room decorated for the holiday. The piano had been moved from the center of the room to allow the sofa and chairs from the library to be placed by the hearth. The shelves were empty of Edward's music and books, instead filled with spruce boughs and white candles. Festive music played on the gramophone, and the air smelled of apples and spices… It smelled good, the spices almost reminding me of Edward's scent, and the sweetness of Esme's. And in the window was a tree decorated with snowflakes of silver. I had no idea where it had all come from—

"The forest," Edward answered. "And Esme sent me to town to buy silver leaf. We made paper snowflakes and then brushed it on. They probably won't hold up to being packed away for next year, but they sparkle in the light. You just have to keep them well clear of the candles." He helped me with my overcoat, and I reluctantly released Esme as I shed it, looking again at the transformed music room.

"They're beautiful." And they were. Fragile and delicate, each one unique. They reflected back the warm light from the small candles in silver candleholders fastened with clips to the ends of each branch. I'd seen trees like this in windows for the last fifty years or so. They weren't in fashion during my human life (pagan, my father would have said), and I never wanted one while I was alone. Edward had always adamantly refused a tree, though he was more willing to celebrate Christmas with me after that first year, usually by playing carols on the piano and cajoling me into singing. I looked at him, wondering if Esme's presence alone explained the change in his attitude.

He shrugged. "She's more stubborn than you are," he whispered loudly, feigning surprise and innocence when she heard and glared at him.

I laughed at the way they teased each other, like actual siblings during a carefree holiday. It was very good to be home.

"We wanted to get the new electrical lights, but they wouldn't have arrived from the Sears and Roebuck catalog in time. Anyway, Esme and I both have vague memories of trees with candles from our childhoods, so it seemed appropriate. Come sit down, Carlisle. Unless you have packages to put under the tree," he added, raising an eyebrow.

I looked back at the tree and saw several small packages wrapped underneath it. "Ah… mine aren't wrapped, but I can place them under the tree as is if you're feeling impatient. Otherwise, I might need to locate some supplies." I looked across at the library, full of boxes, despairing of finding anything to decorate the boxes I had brought from New York.

"Yours are bigger," Edward said, retrieving my shopping bags from the foyer and noting the two boxes containing their new winter coats. "They don't need to be as fancy. Do you know which belongs to whom?"

Several minutes later, after making them close their eyes as Edward sang, "I know what you're getting," at Esme, and she swatted his arm and told him to hush, I had their packages under the tree and labeled.

Edward changed the record as Esme whispered, "It's too much, Carlisle. Look at all those packages. You've already given me a gift." I watched as her delicate hand moved to her throat and caressed the raised design of the crest.

"Well, many of these are more practical in nature. They don't really count…" I tried. Edward just laughed.

I had them open the clothing first, explaining that these would help them fit into our new home. Esme looked quite elegant as she modeled the coat.

"This is what they're wearing on the east coast?" Edward asked, holding up a new suit.

I nodded. "All the young college students, apparently. We can get more once we're settled there and see if there is a difference between the fashions of Hartford and New York. We don't want to appear _too_ fashionable, but we need to maintain the illusion that we fit in."

"Did you get one for yourself? You're looking a little ragged around the collar."

I rolled my eyes. "I was going to, but I had more pressing things to do, like catch my train. I still have plenty of shirts with wear in them."

"And on that note, I think you should open my gift next."

He handed me a package wrapped in ribbons and a perfect bow. I shook it slightly, feeling the weight shift, and raised an eyebrow at him.

_Did you wrap this yourself?_

"Pfft," he answered, and I grinned as I slid the ribbon off and handed it to Esme, who was watching me keenly.

I tore the paper and the box open to find a new black doctor's bag made of fine leather. I pulled it out to admire it. It actually _smelled_ expensive. Near the clasp there was a CC and a small lion embossed into the leather.

"If you're supposed to be posing as a twenty-three year old, you can't have a bag that looks forty," he said, grinning. "And this way, you won't come home with a colleague's bag by mistake."

"It's perfect, Edward. Thank you." I stood and gave him a hug. Esme's jewelry box was still in the inside pocket of my jacket, and we both felt it press against us as we were chest to chest. He raised an eyebrow as he pulled away.

"That's only my small gift. My big one is that we are about 90% packed. I fixed all the damage to the woodwork that Esme did when she was a volatile newborn… a _charming," _he said as he caught the ball of paper she'd thrown at him, "but volatile newborn. I repainted upstairs and the library, and we'll finish the downstairs tomorrow. _And _I called the realtor and warned him that we'd be putting the house on the market soon and got all his contact information, so we can work with him after we leave. _And_ I called Mr. Campbell and had the Chicago properties cleaned."

I stared at him as he leaned against the back of a chair, clearly preening at his own achievement. "I'm going to have to leave more often if it spurs this 'responsible' streak in you."

"No you won't," said Esme firmly, and then she froze as she realized her words. "Of course, if you need to we're fine. We did fine. But… well, he pines terribly," she said, quickly motioning to Edward, a gleam in her eye.

"I do no—"

"I tried to distract him and keep him cheerful, but you know how sullen teenagers can get."

I bit back my smile as Edward's face went aghast. "_I_ was pining? Esme, you—"

"But we needn't dwell on the past," she added a bit louder than was necessary, and I couldn't stifle my mirth any longer. "We're both just glad to have you home. Why don't you open this one next?" She attempted to deflect any continuance of the conversation.

I accepted the small box and eyed Edward, who was clearly planning his retaliation. And though it was funny to see them like this, I didn't want it to escalate.

"Why don't you open this one next, Edward?" I suggested as I handed him the bag from the music store. It had both records and sheet music. "There is a thriving jazz scene in Harlem, and what little I heard in the music store sounded a bit different from what we heard in Chicago."

He began poring over the contents of the bag, engrossed as the distracted "thank you" left his lips. I motioned for Esme to sit beside me and turned my attention to her gift. The square box fit in the palm of my hand, but it was heavy.

"Don't shake it," Edward said, still looking at his new sheet music.

I smiled at Esme, who was literally on the edge of her seat in anticipation, peering at my fingers as I slid the ribbon from the package and opened the box. Inside, nestled in blue velvet, sat a beautiful sterling silver pocket watch with a simple but elegant embossed design.

"Thank you, Esme. This is very handsome. And I still prefer a pocket watch over the new wristwatches. As a surgeon, I find them impractical; I'm forever having to remove them." I lifted the watch from its box and felt its weight in my hand — it fit perfectly. I pressed the release and gasped. Inside the cover, across from the watch face, was a painted portrait of the three of us. I was in the center, with Esme to my left, and Edward on my right, all of us with identical golden eyes. My family. I was almost overwhelmed with the beauty of it.

"Now you can carry us with you, even when you have to leave us for a while."

"Oh, Esme." I wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to me, burying my face in her hair as I kissed the top of her head and felt her arms move around my chest. I found myself blinking as though my eyes were filling with tears. Which was impossible. But I couldn't remember being so moved, even with all the incredibly emotional moments I'd shared with Edward and then Esme the last several years. To see us painted together in ageless oil on solid silver… permanent and enduring. Like us. "It's perfect."

We stayed like that for a long while, Esme's watch cradled in my right hand, and Esme herself in my left arm, perfectly content. The Christmas music drifted through the room, and Edward sorted his new albums. Peace surrounded us as the record played, until finally the last strains faded. The repeating click marked the end of the recording, and Esme released the smallest happy sigh.

"You still have to open mine, Esme," Edward said, handing her a box hidden behind the tree. She opened a box of teas, new set of brushes, and a single teacup from her set.

"Did you order a new one from New York?" she asked, amazed.

"No, this one turned up in one of the local shops. I think it might well be the one you brought with you to Ashland. It was just a single cup on a shelf at the back of a pawnbroker's shop, and the broker couldn't remember how he'd gotten it. Your set's complete again."

"You've been very sneaky… when did you have time to go comb through all the shops in Ashland?"

"I didn't have to comb the shops, just the shopkeeps' minds," he said, tapping his temple. "It goes much faster."

She laughed, giving him a hug, and then handed him a package. Inside he found bookends carved of stone. One was white, dolomite, by the looks of it, and the other was bluish black. In the white, lines and notes had been etched in black, and on the black, they'd been etched in white. Edward studied them carefully for a moment and then burst out laughing.

Esme was smirking as I looked back and forth between them, realizing there was a joke I still wasn't getting.

"Chopin," Edward said, as means of explanation. "Revolution Etude," he said, raising the black bookend, "and Nocturne in E-flat major," he said, raising the light colored bookend.

"For your dark and light moods, because I love them both," Esme said.

"Of course you do," Edward said, giving her a hug. "Thank you, Esme. I love them."

"Well, I couldn't go shopping, so I made due with what I could find on our hunts and make myself. Of course, Edward helped get the watch," she said, turning to me.

"Both gifts were from the heart and bore your talent. How could they be anything but lovely?"

"Well, that's presents, then," Edward said, clapping his hands together. "Now we have carols, stories, and dancing. Or at least that's how my parents' old Christmas parties went. I think. We should skip the eggnog, though."

_Dancing?_ I tried to quell my panic as Esme sat up a bit straighter. Edward grinned at me.

"So shall I put on another record, so you can tell us about our new home? Or shall I play, so we can sing?"

"Oh, tell us what you found," Esme answered, turning to me eagerly and saving me from the decision. Edward put on another record as I told them as much as I could about the house and the town, the distance to New York, and the sights there. As I described the city, Edward pulled out some of the sheet music I'd bought him, looking it over as he asked questions. And finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he played a mixture of new jazz songs and old Christmas carols. Esme stood by the piano, watching Edward's fingers as he played, and I stood beside her, unable to look at anything but her profile. Her skin seemed to glow and shimmer in the candlelight as she sang. She rarely wore her hair up in a formal style; it was either down or knotted messily at her neck to keep it out of the way as she painted. And perhaps because the view was so rare, I found myself enthralled with the nape of her neck, how it curved gently, the small curls that eluded her bun just behind her ear. I wanted to touch them. I wanted to nuzzle my nose in her hairline, brush my lips from her ear to the back of her neck, open my mouth and feel her skin on my lips, my tongue, my teeth…

It was an incongruent urge to feel while singing about the virgin birth of our Lord Christ.

Edward began playing the more secular 'Deck the Halls', and I wondered idly if he was attempting to encourage my train of thought. It seemed highly unlikely.

Dawn's light entered the music room just as the last of the candles snuffed out. We all collapsed in out seats utterly spent and listened as the birdsong began. I had not had such a night in… well, perhaps ever. So much joy and laughter and song, and now quiet contentment. I reached lazily from where I sat to touch one of the silver leaf snowflakes, watching it glint in the light as it turned.

"Thank you, both of you. I can't think of when I've had such a grand Christmas."

"What were your Christmases like when you were a child?" Esme asked quietly.

I shook my head. "All I remember is singing in cold, shadowy churches. I don't even know if it was Christmastime."

"And you?" she turned to Edward.

"Just like this," he said, spreading his arms, "Except with more drunken guests and tables full of sweets. I like our version better, to be honest. And you, Esme?"

She looked to the ceiling, remembering. "We didn't have many ornaments, so we strung popped corn and winter berries on thread to decorate the tree. And then after Christmas, we would hang them in the trees in the backyard and watch the birds eat them. I remember red cardinals and black and white chickadees against the snow. And I remember baking. Days of baking. I like our way better, too."

I laughed at that and reached for her hand. Edward excused himself and turned to go upstairs, as the birdsong grew louder.

"You and Edward have been so busy the last few days. Thank you for preparing everything."

"There's still a bit to do. There were some things in your study that Edward thought you'd want to pack yourself. And the bedrooms haven't been touched except to pack the summer clothes. But the rest shouldn't take long. I'll be sad to remove the tree and boughs; they make the house smell nice."

"They do. We can leave them for last."

We spent the day in quiet preparation and domestic tranquility. I went to the attic and prepared all our new papers before packing up those files. As I packed, Edward brought them downstairs and piled boxes in the library. Esme changed her dress and painted the rest of the rooms, careful not to get any paint on the piano or other furniture. Edward and I finished packing my study. And the whole day, I kept the ring in my breast pocket, close to my still heart. I watched Esme as she moved through the rooms, giving me her smile whenever our paths crossed. I thought about packing to leave the farmhouse in Chicago, when I still thought I'd be leaving alone. This felt so different: the three of us quietly bustling toward a common goal. And yet, when Esme didn't think anyone was watching, there was a sadness in her expression that I couldn't place. She would shake herself out of it if one of us approached, but it still haunted her.

By mid afternoon we were basically done. Esme was bathing to get the paint off her skin, and Edward was playing something on the piano that I wasn't familiar with: composing, I'd guess. I built the fire up, wondering when we'd actually be able to head to Chicago. I was sad to leave this house — it had brought me so much joy — but it already didn't feel like home.

"The movers come Monday, along with the realtor," Edward said, closing up the piano. "I figure we may as well get it on the market right away. It's not likely to sell in the winter, but you never know." He was moving around the room as if he were leaving.

"That was lovely, Edward," Esme said as she entered the room, clean and hair up and back in the ivory dress, the flower embroidery lending a bit of weight to the netting, making it drape around her as she moved. The choker had never left her neck, even while she painted. And I had to admit that I liked the idea that she was loath to remove it.

"Yes, and nearly finished, I think. Just another movement to add when I sort out a complementary chord progression. I think I know how it ends, but I'm still waiting for it to come perfectly clear. He gave us both an odd look before continuing. "And now I think I'm off to do my last good deed for the lovely people of Ashland."

"Oh," I asked, surprised, "And what's that?"

He chucked. "Well, when I was in town the other day, I overheard some of the ranchers complaining that livestock were being killed, and they'd found mountain lion tracks. If a puma is becoming a nuisance to our distant neighbors, I feel it's my civic duty to discharge it." Esme giggled at his mock seriousness, and Edward shrugged. "I need to practice my tracking skills, anyway. You're welcome to join me."

I had fed before I left for Connecticut and wouldn't need anything for another week at least. The herds were scarce in the winter, and I tried not to take more than I needed. I looked at Esme, raising an eyebrow.

"I fed yesterday before you came home. Perhaps we can go hunting just before we leave for Chicago."

"That's prudent." I turned to Edward. "I think you're on your own in this civic-minded endeavor." I couldn't stifle the pleasure I found anticipating an evening alone with Esme.

"Yes, well, it's a sacrifice, but we each must stand when need calls." I laughed at the reference to the old war propaganda. "I probably won't be back until daybreak."

"Such the gentleman, Edward." Esme said fondly, and he gave her an amused look.

He excused himself to change into old clothes; he was still occasionally hard on his clothing when he went after carnivores. Moments later, he was saying good night and was lost in the trees and fading light. I turned to Esme, who stood by the piano watching the door Edward had just left through. She was so lovely.

"He's a good boy," she nodded at the door with an amused expression.

"The best," I agreed, placing my hand in my pocket and wrapping it around my new watch. I found myself holding it almost constantly already. Esme fidgeted. "Shall we light the candles on the tree again? The day is already fading, and it looked lovely last night." Her dimple and eyes both flashed, and a few moments later, we were placing new candles in the holders on the tree and lighting them. I built up the fire, as well, and soon the room was glowing warmly against the gathering darkness outside. Esme chose Pachelbel's Canon for the gramophone, and I settled on the sofa, turning to her just in time to see the misty expression in her eyes again.

"Esme?" I asked softly. "Is everything okay?"

She smiled ruefully. "Yes, fine. It's just… I've just been thinking a bit about last Christmas. I was pregnant with Colin and looking forward to our lives together: scared, but hopeful."

I froze. How had I not thought of this? Edward had been mourning his parents our first Christmas together. How could I forget that Esme, too, had someone to mourn?

"Oh, Esme. I'm sorry." I reached a hand out to her, and she walked over and took it, lacing out fingers together as she sat beside me.

She sighed and squeezed my fingers. "It's been a strange year. Eventful. Full of so much joy and pain. I started the year wanting a family… a family that worked. That wasn't painful or manipulative. I started the year with one vision of that family, but I'm ending it with another. And yet I can't help but miss him, or the potential of him."

"Of course you can't. I'm sorry. I know it's not… I know that _this_ life is not what you'd imagined for yourself, but I hope you find joy in it." My voice had dropped to a whisper.

She drew lines across the back of my hand with her free one as she thought. "It's closer to what I'd dreamed than you realize," she whispered. "I thought I was having a girl, you know. Everyone had told me that I was carrying as if he were a girl, and I was too naïve to question it. I was going to name her after Rachel." I thanked God again that Rachel had come into Esme's life and given her a friend when she needed one. "It was quite a surprise when the nurse announced I had a son." She smiled softly, and I watched her face as she struggled to continue. "Men in my life… well, there weren't very many I could look up to. The name that came to my mind was one I hadn't heard for ten years, but you'd been kind, and respectful, and funny. You really saw me. In the hour we spent together, I'd told you more about my true self than I'd probably ever told my father. You just drew it from me."

Was she saying that she'd named her son after me? But his name was—

"Of course, I only knew your last name." Colin. Named after Cullen. Oh, God, she'd thought of me as much as I'd thought of— "Have you examined your watch thoroughly?"

That stopped me short. She was looking straight into my eyes as I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. I turned it in my hand, admiring the embossed design, but not seeing anything unusual. I pressed the release, and the cover sprang open. I'd memorized the painting of us, but I looked again to see if I'd somehow missed some secret detail, some allusion to her son. I only saw three sets of familiar golden eyes.

"Open the back."

I turned it over and pressed the much smaller latch that covered the watch works. Moving gears and springs were exposed, and on the inside of the back cover, an engraved message:

_Thank you for finding me_

_And giving me a second chance_

_at my dreams._

_With love, Esme_

My breath hitched as she continued, "I'll miss my son forever, Carlisle, but the truth is, you were always part of my dreams."

I slid my right hand from hers and wrapped my arm around her. My mouth moved against her temple as I whispered, "You have long been a part of mine, too, Esme."

She sank her side against my chest, sighing, and then pulled back in reaction to the pointed corner of the box in my breast pocket. She looked at me, confused. I took both her hands in mine, sinking to my knee before her.

Her eyes grew wide.

"Esme, I've thought about this moment for so long — and there are so many things I want to say — but now I find it is simply this: I love you.

"Perhaps I have loved you since we met. My feelings have grown and deepened so much in the last year that I don't know exactly when they changed from a desire to protect and nurture to a desire to share…everything. Perhaps they evolved as you did this year," I reached up to trace her hairline with my fingers, the spot on her temple where my mouth had just rested. "You are no longer a confused and distressed newborn in need of a sire's guidance. You are a woman: a very caring, very intelligent, _very_ beautiful woman. In truth, the finest I've ever known."

She sat up a bit straighter, searching my face.

"I love you so very much, and want you… want you to be my partner in everything, forever. You are such a rare creature, Esme: so warm, so caring, so accepting. You burn with this fire, this passion, and you radiate your warmth and light to everyone around you. You're incandescent. I had no idea how dim my life was before you entered it."

I reached into my pocket and removed the small goldleaf box, opening it to reveal the opal ring nestled in midnight blue velvet. Esme's hand went to her heart as her eyes travelled from the ring to my face.

"I know that your previous experience may have soured you on the idea—"

Her left hand dropped to my lips, shushing me. "Don't speak of that," she whispered, and then moved her hand to my cheek, looking at me with intent emotion.

"I have to ask anyway," I continued. "Please, Esme. Please be my wife. Please share this life with me. I will give you anything I can, support any dream you want to follow, share your pain through any sorrow. I will love you and cherish you to the end of my days."

There was a long moment of silence, during which I couldn't breathe as I watched her eyes move between my face and the ring in my hand. It was almost unbearable, the waiting. If she said no—

And then her arms were around my neck, and she was in my arms, nearly knocking me over, but I caught her and stood, lifting her with me, burying my face in the curve of her neck as she clung tightly.

Was this a yes?

Her body, pressed against mine, started trembling as if she were crying. I tried to pull back a bit to see her face but she clung tighter, and so I just held her as tightly as I could. I drew a breath, marveling at the feeling of her in my arms. But I still wasn't sure.

"Esme, please say something… anything."

"Yes." Her breath huffed right against my ear. "Yes!" And I closed my eyes to savor the moment. All I wanted and needed, here in my arms: mine. She was choosing to be mine, accepting me as hers. And now I was trembling, my breath uneven and erratic. She loosened her arms and slid down my body until her feet could touch the ground again, and her eyes could meet mine. "Yes," she said again. "And that has got to be the most beautiful ring I've ever seen."

I laughed and kissed her forehead. "It took me weeks to find a ring worthy of you." I lifted the ring between us so she could see it again. "They call those flashes of color 'fire,' and when I heard that, I knew it was the one. A ring of fire and beauty for my incandescent Esme. Shall we see how it looks on you?"

Her face was alight with her smile as I took the ring from the box and slid it onto her finger. We both admired it for a moment when she whispered, "It's amazingly beautiful. I can't believe you really believe all those things about me."

"Then I will have to make it my life's goal to convince you," I said laughing. "In truth, I wanted to wait… to woo you properly and make you understand the full force of my regard, but I just couldn't. I couldn't leave here with things still uncertain between us. I'll make it up to you: I'll act like we're still dating through the entirety of our marriage."

"You'll stop bringing me flowers within a month of moving," she teased.

"Never," I answered. "You will have fresh flowers forever, Esme. You will beg me to stop you'll be so tired of them."

She laughed, and I lifted her again, spinning her before setting her down and running my fingers along her hairline. I would spend the rest of my life memorizing every detail of her face, the pattern of her irises, the curl in her hair, the curve of her neck, and arm, and waist…

"I love you," she whispered, and humor dissipated as I gazed at her lovely, lovely face.

She loved me.

My mind was a complete blank for a moment. And then my fingers threaded themselves into her hair and my face drew closer to hers, hovering an inch away, feeling her breath, breathing her air, savoring her scent in my mouth, hovering in anticipation until a brush of lips, so light I wasn't sure at first that it was real. And then another — soft, gentle, tentative. My hands moved, one cradling the back of her head and the other drifting down her spine, tracing the curve I'd long admired from afar, to wrap around her waist. Her arms coiled around my neck with the same intention: pulling us closer, closer. She whispered my name, and I swallowed it, pressing my lips more firmly against hers, moving, tasting.

And the world as I knew it shattered into crystalline fragments of light and heat.

Slowly, in gentle huffs of breath and warm slides of lips and fingers, the universe was remade. Wisps of sensation coalesced into threads and wove together into a new tapestry of reality in which _this_ — Esme in my arms, kissing me in the candlelight — became truth more profound than anything in my library of ancient philosophers. _This_, which had seemed so impossible a month ago and improbable only minutes ago, became fundamental, like gravity or light.

And as the world reformed, my awareness grew again. I noted the softness of her hair between my fingers, the exact way she shuddered as my tongue moved across her lips, her scent as she leaned her head back, exposing her neck in a move so trusting it hurt. All my senses recalibrated to her: her softness and her fragrance, shimmering ivory and gold and auburn and _warmth_, so much warmth it was hard to imagine that I'd ever been cold, that there was cold anywhere in the world.

God, she tasted wonderful. Like her scent, magnified and sweetened; it reminded me subtly of the taste of her blood on my lips, nearly a year ago. And with that thought, the warmth that had spread over me during this sweet kiss, this intimate meeting, full of promise… this prelude… changed into something brighter and more urgent. I wanted to savor and devour, consume without destruction. It was glorious. Something approaching a growl escaped my throat.

She groaned into my mouth, and I tightened my arm around her waist, pulling her closer still, until our bodies were completely flush as our lips, in constant motion, explored and learned and memorized. And now we were pressed together, her delightful curves against me, making it hard to even breathe for the joy of it, and the evidence of my heavy desire pressed into her abdomen. Her fingers coiled into my hair, and she moved against me hungrily. Christ, it felt like floodgates opening, and my body… every urge I'd tried to hide or repress the last several months rushing to escape… and now Esme was in my arms, her mouth on mine, every soft part of her pressed against me. And she moved — God, the way she moved — and I wanted… I wanted…

"Esme. Esme, stop."

* * *

_AN: Music referenced in this chapter will be added to the playlist, accessible from my profile. And I've added a link to Esme's engagement ring on my profile as well (the Right Ring). Thank you all for reading. _

_Oh, and if you choose to review (and I'd love to hear from you), please sign in. If you review as a guest and ask a question, all I can do is whisper the answer to my computer screen... Thank you.  
_


	31. Chapter 31

_AN: This one deserves the M rating, FYI. If you are under 18, it's likely not appropriate for you. Many, MANY thanks to juji_loo, who stepped in to beta while Coleen561 is recovering. She looked at it twice, and held my hand a lot. _

* * *

_From Chapter 30:_

_And she moved — God, the way she moved — and I wanted… I wanted…_

_"Esme. Esme, stop."_

* * *

Chapter 31

CPOV

Esme froze.

I pulled back slightly, my breathing labored as I opened my eyes to look at her.

And her face was shrouded in shadow and fear. _Fear?_

"Esme, no," I mumbled, kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her brow. "I want you. God, _of course_, I want you." I felt her ease against me again, relief noticeable in the subtle drop in her shoulders. I pulled her close. "Esme," I murmured, closing my eyes.

Reverence and carnality warred within me until they coiled around each other in my very core; it seemed impossible to feel one without the other. I swallowed thickly, pushing down the desires that were fighting for dominance. She deserved better. She deserved everything.

"I would never treat you with anything but respect. We should wait," I said though a shuddering breath. "We should wait until after the wedding."

"The wedding…"

And now it was my turn to freeze, ice slicing through my stomach. "You said yes," I whispered.

"Oh, yes… yes," she answered, kissing my face, my lips. "Yes. I'll spend my life bound to you, Carlisle." She took a deep breath. "But I don't think I can… you have to understand: I can't be married in a church."

A relieved sigh escaped as I said, "I know. At least, I suspected." I traced my fingers along her hairline and then pressed my brow against hers, needing to touch, even while speaking. "We can go to a Justice of the Peace in Chicago and have a civil ceremony. It's unlikely I could get Edward near a church to stand witness, anyway, even if you were wiling."

Her brows furrowed. "You care about abiding by the human laws of a country that's younger than you are?" she asked somewhat incredulously.

"Not really," I admitted, thinking of all the times I circumvented those laws to recreate my life. "But I want our union to be marked. I want a date to celebrate, a piece of paper with our signatures to frame. It's silly, perhaps. Most vampires merely declare they are mates and are done with it. But I—"

"You live among humans and value their rituals," she said, fondness and love in her voice.

I nodded. Would she find that inane?

"I'm close to that life, too, Carlisle. And I very much want to be your wife. I just…" She trailed off, but I knew enough of her history to understand the rest. The betrayal cut too deeply. And I did not want her thinking of _that_ when she was marrying _me_.

"So we'll go to the courthouse," I said, stroking her cheek. "It doesn't need to be a fancy ceremony if you don't want it to be. It can be anything you like. I just want to make my promises to you."

"And I want to make mine to you." She kissed me and then sighed. "I don't like disappointing you already…"

"Oh, Esme," I whispered, cupping her face and kissing her. "I'm not disappointed. My feelings for you _feel_ sacred. I'd like to make my vows in a sacred space, but not if the cost is your comfort. I understand the betrayal you felt. The courthouse will be just fine."

Her eyes flashed with inspiration. She pulled away from me, her reassuring smile the only reason I could let her go. I watched in confusion as she blew out all the candles on the tree and then extended her hands to me. I took them without hesitation, and she threaded her fingers into mine. "Come with me."

She led me as we flew over the snow. The night was cold and crisp, and the trees were still bedecked in ice, sparkling like jewels in the starlight. My mind cast back to fairy tales I'd heard centuries ago of ageless magical forests of the faerie. And my Esme was perfectly at home in the crystalline forest, and yet, not of it. The ivory of her skin and dress was warmer than the blue-white of the snow and ice, or even the twinkling color of the stars.

She stopped and turned to face me at the base of her tree, still holding my hand.

"This place is sacred to me," she began. "When I could first leave the house alone, I found it. From high in its branches, I could see the hospital and assure myself you were near. This is where you held me as I cried, sharing my history. And this is where you let me hold your hand as you shared your troubles for the first time. And look," she said, raising her eyes to the bare branches.

In the spaces between the interlacing boughs, geometric shapes of sky and stars formed a canopy that drew my sense up and out, like the ethereal ceiling of a cathedral. Even the Milky Way was visible through the branches, swirls of green and blue in the black of the sky.

"Surely God can hear our vows here," she whispered. "We can still have a ceremony in Chicago with Edward as witness. I'll even wear a gown and veil. But let me be your _wife_ tonight."

"This dress," I whispered, taking in the sight of her in the light cast from the heavens: she looked every bit a bride. "We'll buy you a veil in Chicago, if you like, and gloves, and 100,000 flowers if you want them, but please wear _this_ dress." I memorized the vision of her, standing in the snow, framed by the shimmer of ice and stars, looking at me with all the love in the world. Surely, she was right. She was always right.

I took her other hand in mine, gently caressing my thumb over her knuckles and my ring on her finger. I wanted a ring, too, but there would be time for that later. She was still watching me with anticipation. I took a small step forward until her face filled my entire view. The words I'd imagined for months came easily to my lips.

"I, Carlisle Cullen, take you Esme Platt, to be my wife. I offer this solemn vow to love and honor you, comfort and keep you, share in all your joys and sorrows." My voice had started softly, almost a whisper, but had grown strong as the vows branded my heart. "I offer you my heart and soul, body and mind, and will share these with you, forsaking all others, from now until I perish from this earth."

She waited for a moment as I squeezed her hands lightly and then cleared her throat. "I, Esme Platt, take you, Carlisle Cullen, to be my husband." She smiled almost shyly, and I grinned in return. "I offer this solemn vow to love and honor you, comfort and keep you, share in all your joys and sorrows. I offer you my heart and soul, body and mind, and will share these with you, forsaking all others, from now until I perish from this earth."

To hear the words from her lips, to see the truth of them in her eyes— it was almost more than I could bear. My still heart overflowed with emotion. I felt my hands tremble in hers as she finished, and the stars shimmered as the universe changed yet again. So many fleeting hopes and misty desires of my life suddenly bound fast into the fabric of reality.

She was mine. I was hers. Forever.

The world had shifted so abruptly I felt almost dizzy with the joy of it. And then her lips were on mine again, and I was grounded and soaring at once. My arms wrapped easily around her waist, already remembering their place. And the kiss was sweet and full of joy and fervent promise.

A breeze fluttered her dress and loosened snow from the branches above, showering us in light crystalline confetti as we kissed, as though the forest itself celebrated our union with us. _Pagan thoughts_ my father would have said, and I laughed into the kiss, joy bubbling up. And she responded, smiling as happiness infused her kiss and breath and arms around me. Then she tilted her head back, and I followed. My hand rose from her waist to cradle her head as I deepened the kiss, feeling the sweet glide of her tongue against mine. And now as my body responded, I felt no shame. Just love, and a desire sanctioned, and the growing urgency of more vampiric instincts to claim Esme not only as my wife, but also as my mate: an even more permanent bond.

Her breath was growing more ragged, and her fingers twisted in my hair, grasped my neck, pulled me closer. I felt as though I were falling into her depths. Every one of her touches, every kiss, every sigh into my mouth sent me deeper into her until she was all I could hear and smell and taste and feel. Desires swirled within me as I explored her hair, her lips, her face, her neck… the way she felt, pressed against me, pressing herself against me. She ended the kiss, resting her cheek against mine, making even that touch a caress.

"Let's go home, Carlisle."

I kissed her again deeply, amazed at how natural it felt. The months of staying across the room from her had felt awkward and unnatural, I now realized. _This_… this felt wonderful, natural… perfect.

"Of course, my love."

I lifted her into my arms, continuing to kiss her as I walked back toward the house. After what seemed like only one or two perfect kisses later, I was climbing the stairs to the porch, making my way through the door, carrying her across the threshold of the home we'd shared for nearly a year. I climbed the stairs, barely noting the packed boxes pushed against the walls, and finally made it to the door of her room, where I stopped. Inside, most of the furniture had been removed to allow the room to be painted. Only the bed remained, standing alone in the middle of the room, gossamer canopy fluttering as a breeze entered from the open window.

I was struck by how very much a life could change in such a short amount of time. Not even a full year. This bed… it had been my bane for months following Esme's transformation as she shut herself off from us within it. I'd watched from across the room as she lay on this bed, the sheer drapes cocooning her away from the world… away from me. I'd resented that diaphanous, impenetrable fortress. I'd wanted to tear it down.

That wasn't entirely true either. I'd wanted it to remain, to protect her from what she feared. I'd just wanted to be allowed in. When I finally breached the curtain with a single hand reaching out to her in comfort, it had felt like a miracle. The sheers never again felt quite as heavy, but they were still a divider between Esme's private world and the life she shared with us. And in my mind, they changed from a bane to a fantasy. How often had I imagined parting the sheers and seeing her without the shimmering veil? How often had I dreamt of joining her inside the safety of that delicate seclusion? And now, here she was, solid in my arms, and the billowing, curtained bed stood alone in the middle of the room.

And I was still standing in the doorframe. Nothing in my nearly 300 years of existence seemed to prepare me for this moment.

"Carlisle?"

I kissed her, trying to cover my rising anxiety and recapture some of the peace I'd felt in the forest. Trying to sort out how to begin. I had precious few sources to draw from: medical texts, things I'd been forced to witness with the Volturi. Aro had tried to wean me from my Puritan sensibilities and entice me to embrace the more hedonistic drives of my vampire brethren. Watching had been… educational. But somehow, none of it seemed applicable to this lovely, radiant woman or the shelter of her bed. I set her down awkwardly just inside the door, and she turned to face me. Her face was marked with concern.

"Carlisle, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I assured her, stroking her face and kissing her gently. "It's just that, despite the fact that I have several centuries of experience over you… in this matter, you have the advantage."

"Oh…_oh_… you've never…" I shook my head. To be honest, I couldn't be _sure_. I remembered little of my human life. But it seemed unlikely. I didn't remember a lot, but I remembered important things. Surely this would have been important. I cursed my uncertainty. I wanted Esme. I _wanted _her… I just…

She reached up and started to stroke the hair at my temple and smiled gently. "Well, my experiences were not very fulfilling. We'll find our way together." I tried to smile at her, but I could tell it was off. My nerves were showing.

She smiled compassionately, and then a mischievous gleam flashed in her eyes. "Don't worry; it's quite instinctual," she said, quoting back to me something I'd said when I first taught her to hunt. I laughed, grateful that she'd pulled me out of my nerves before they'd paralyzed me completely.

"Close your eyes," she ordered gently, and I did, listening to the soft rustle of her dress as she came closer. Her breath was on the shell of my ear, and I gasped as I heard her softly continue my quote, "Now, focus for a moment on what you smell."

I smelled her. Just Esme: old-world roses and lavender, cinnamon, and something else now, something spicier. Completely intoxicating. Oh, God, arousal. I took a deep breath, drawing it in, this evidence that Esme wanted me, too. It was heavy in my lungs, steeping into my pores, grounding and exhilarating — washing away my uncertainty.

I felt her back away slightly and opened my eyes. Her expression was no longer teasing. "And what you see," she added. She was so lovely, so _loving_. Mesmerizing. I noticed the graceful curve of her neck and followed it down to other curves. My center tightened almost unbearably. "Now, what do you _want_ to do?" she whispered, finishing my quote.

I knew where I wanted to start, anyway. I reached up and put my hands on either side of her face, kissing her as I had in the forest, passionately and full of promise. That sense of communion staid any nerves, and soon the canopied bed in the middle of the room seemed welcoming instead of intimidating. My hands traced her hairline down to her throat where her fragrance was headiest, and my pearls and crest marked her as mine. I traced a line of kisses from her cheek down to the hollow of her throat, my lips following where my fingers led, and she gasped and clutched the back of my head, holding me to her, making my kisses harder, and burying my face in her potent aroma. And my lips and tongue found the first place they had ever touched her: the bite that made her, and Esme groaned as I traced it over and over, memorizing the feel of the raised skin against my tongue and lips.

I pulled her gently against me with one arm; she could be in no doubt of how much I desired her. Again, I felt every soft curve of her pressed against me, but it was no longer enough. We'd come too far for me to be satisfied with such teasing touches. With a shuddering breath, I trailed my free hand down her cheek, her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, her shoulder, and lower, until it came to rest cupping the weight of her breast. All along the way, Esme curved into my touch, surrendering under it, drawing it on. And it was beautiful. So beautiful. I felt her, vibrant and warm and open under my trembling fingers, our breath floating around us in swirls of gasps as I explored. She moaned as I gently brushed my thumb across her hardened nipple. Oh, God, that sound! I swallowed it, wanting to make a banquet of the noises I might draw from her. This was marvelous. Delicious. Intoxicating. The sound of her moan was like an earthquake within me, and I clutched at her, grasping at her skirt and tugging her against me.

And she stiffened.

It was enough to pull me out of… whatever frenzy was coming over me. Oh, God, what had I done? I pulled back and cupped her face in my hands. There was a trace of fear in her eyes as she closed them, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She leaned her forehead on my shoulder, and I tried to soothe her, rubbing my hands over her neck and shoulders as I cursed the instincts that had made me grasp her. For all her reassurances, there was a danger here. Her husband had treated her very roughly. I wanted my touches to erase the memory of all that came before me, not bring them to her mind.

"I'm sorry…" she whispered.

"Shhh," I cupped her face and kissed her to stop any more apologies. "Esme, _I'm _sorry." I stroked her cheekbones with my thumbs. She was so precious to me. "I… I should be able to control myself better."

She grimaced and shook her head. "No, it was fine. I just…"

"It's not fine. Esme, I love you. The last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable or used. We… if you're not ready for this step, we don't have to do anything tonight. You've made me so happy, and I love you so much. I can wait. I'm a very patient man."

She laughed a bit ruefully, burying her head in my chest as her hands gripped at my shirt. "You are that," she said. She looked up into my face. "I, however, am not a _particularly_ patient woman. Can we just try that again?" she asked, sliding her hands up my chest and then threading her fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck and pulling me down.

"Are you su—"

She'd started kissing me before I could voice my question. And this kiss was reassuring, but only sweet for a moment. Soon her tongue was leading mine back into her mouth. I tried to control my reactions this time, but she wasn't making it easy. My hands were still on her waist, and I moved them slowly, caressing her sides and back with care… trying to avoid any sudden movements that might startle her.

I could feel the heat rising in me again, despite my desire to be cautious. She groaned as my fingers stroked her ribcage below her breasts, and my body shook in reaction. Did she have any idea what she was doing to me? God, how was I going to do this without scaring her? What my body was telling me to do… it just couldn't be right.

She reached down and took my hand in hers, dragging it up her body until it was again cupping her breast. She pressed herself into my hand, and my breath hitched as I felt her move again with desire, shifting her body until she was pressed against my erection. I studied her face for a moment and saw no trace of fear now, just arousal and desire as her lips formed my name silently over and over. She wanted me, as I wanted her. And I would do everything in my power to erase the memories. I would claim every inch of skin with my lips, every breath, every sensation until they were ours alone.

She tilted her head, and I saw that mischievous gleam that I'd come to love. Her invitation was clear. I traced the kisses down her throat and along her collarbone toward her shoulder where I ran into the neckline of her dress. My hands explored it, mapping the margins where I could caress bare skin normally hidden by her hair or sleeves. Secret skin. I traced every one of her curves through the sheer fabric, capturing her moans with my mouth as I explored: her breasts, her narrow waist, her hips and the swell of her seat. She shuddered and moaned, pressing herself against me. Her hands roamed my shoulders and arms, my neck and hair. I wanted more skin: more of hers beneath my hands and more of mine beneath hers. As lovely as this silk and fine netting were, I wanted to memorize her curves without a barrier. But this dress — which I _loved_ on her from across the room — was thwarting me. There were no fasteners to be discovered anywhere. It was soft and filmy, and clung to her curves as if it belonged. As if it had grown onto her like flower petals, flowed around her like water.

"Esme," I whispered as I forced myself to be still, pressing my brow against hers as we both struggled for breath. "I don't want to ruin your beautiful dress." I traced the neckline down to its lowest point where there were a few tiny decorative buttons. They clearly didn't do anything.

"Allow me," she said smiling as I looked at the three tiny buttons between her breasts. She disentangled her arms from me and reached to her left side where a fabric panel had hidden a row of hook and eye fasteners. She had them undone in a matter of seconds. Then she looked at me intently and raised her arms. It took me a moment to realize what she wanted, but then I hooked my fingers under the shoulders of the dress and lifted it gently over her head. It was like a curtain lifting to expose a beautiful work of art. I stared at her form. Her bare stomach was flat but soft, and her hips and breasts curved away from her narrow waist, both covered with the sheerest silk and pale lace. Her shoulders, arms, and legs—all bare. Only her feet were covered by small, pointed, heeled shoes that had matched her dress.

I took in a ragged breath as she lowered her arms, and then caught one of her hands in mine before it dropped completely. All this exposed flesh was overwhelming, but perhaps if I started with one small place… I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it, looking into her eyes as I let her dress gently drop to the floor behind me. She smiled and drew an excited breath. I turned her hand over and kissed the inside of her wrist, smelling her fragrance there. And then my kisses moved up the inside of her arm, past the inside of her elbow, and up to her shoulder, closing the distance between us; the hand I'd left behind now clung to the back of my neck. My hands found her waist and caressed up and down each side of her torso, enjoying the smooth silk of her skin where it was exposed and the slippery satin and lace of her undergarments. She shivered with pleasure, and I moved my kisses from her shoulder, across her collarbone to her throat.

I felt her fingers on the front of my waistcoat — unbuttoning it — and I moved my lips to her mouth, stepping back a few inches to give her better access while exploring her bare back with my hands. I brushed across the fasteners for her bra, relieved that I'd at least found _those _clasps. She finished with my waistcoat and eased it off my shoulders. The straps of my suspenders followed, and then she began on the shirt buttons as she whispered something about "men's armor" against my lips.

"I may be wearing more than you," I whispered between kisses, "but at least it's clear how it comes off."

She chuckled into the kiss as she started to untuck the shirt from my trousers, and all humor left me.

She was baring me; I was hers to bare. It was a heady and arousing sensation.

I stood in silent wonder as layer after layer came off. She undid my tie, pulling it through the collar before sliding the shirt over my shoulders. I quickly released her to undo the buttons at the cuffs and then eased the shirt to the floor next to the dress. Her fingers were already untucking my undershirt from my trousers, and soon it was on the floor as well. Stepping out of my shoes, I faced her, more naked than I'd ever been before a woman, feeling utterly exposed. She tentatively touched my bare arms with her fingertips, moving from my wrists up to my shoulders, and then along the panes of my chest. Her fingers were soft and light, and I trembled under her touch. God, I had longed for this. In my waking dreams, she had wanted me like this, touched me like this, was bare to me like this. And now, here I was. She came closer, brushing light kisses on my chest, and then she wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her nearly naked body into mine. I nearly choked on the pleasure of feeling her warm, smooth skin against my own.

"Oh, Esme," I said as I wrapped my arms around her and drew her close. All that pale, smooth skin. Somehow, amazingly, I was allowed to touch it. To feel her bare back against my forearms and the tug of lace and silk as my arm passed over her bra.

"I know," she said. "It's like a dream."

We kissed another endless moment, and this kiss was different. The heat of her skin against mine was startling, beyond anything my imagination had previously conjured. Intense. And it filtered into everything: the kiss, the way she fit into my arms with almost nothing between us, the way she moaned my name and moved her arms against me, constantly sliding her skin over mine as if she were relishing the feel. And though mere moments ago, this had seemed impossible, I already wanted more.

"Go sit on the bed, Esme," I finally said between kisses. She kissed me and then loosened her arms and walked backward, never releasing my eyes, until she reached the bed, pushing the sheer curtain to the side to expose the white bedding. When she sat, I knelt in front of her and slowly unfastened the buckle of each shoe. I removed them, setting them by the bed, and looked at her bare feet. I could hear her shallow breaths as she looked down on me, but if I looked at her face now… it would be too much.

I moved my hands to her ankles, caressing them and the perfect arches of her feet. My fingers traced the ridges of her feet, dips by each toe, the slope of her ankle, and then drew higher, caressing her calves, her knees, the tops of her thighs, memorizing the subtle curvature of muscle. Learning her.

After one more kiss on each knee, I looked at her face. She was bracing herself, leaning back on her hands as she watched me intently, lips parted and eyes wild. Her chest heaved as I ran my hands up the tops of her thighs and then back down to her knees. She moved her knees apart ever so slightly, and I ran my thumbs along the heated inside of her thighs, watching her reaction with fascination. And as her legs parted further, I caught the strong scent of her arousal. My shaft strained against my pants, and I closed my eyes, savoring the aroma. I gently pushed her knees apart and shuffled to the edge of the bed between them, pulling her toward me until my face was brushing over her breasts. I kissed them through the fabric of her bra, and Esme gasped my name, threading her fingers in my hair and holding me close as my lips wandered over lace and silk, swells and dips of flesh, soft curves and hard nipples. My hands were trembling again as I caressed my way up to a strap and pulled it down off her shoulder, watching with wonder as the lace slipped down to expose her.

New, all these bare curves and the knowledge that this was permitted…encouraged. She was mine to bare and I wanted to know all of her, taste all of her. She gasped as I took her bare nipple into my mouth, drawn on by some instinct I couldn't even name. And this was glorious. Her skin here was sweeter than elsewhere, and the noises she made as my tongue slid in circles — exploring and tasting and teasing — sent shivers along my spine and then lower. I felt powerful and gentle as Esme writhed in pleasure under my touch. I had worried that I would not be able to elicit pleasure in her, but she was open, responsive, beautiful. And I was feeling more confident by the moment.

I reached up to the back of her bra, hoping to sort out its hooks, but her hand flashed back, and she had it undone before I could even attempt it. I hooked my finger under her other strap and pulled it off her shoulder, freeing her lovely breasts from the lace and silk confines. I cupped them both in my hands, caressing while I looked up into her face. Her eyes were dark, dilated, and her head rocked back as I pinched her nipples slightly. The spicy aroma flooded my nostrils again.

"Lay back on the bed, my love," I whispered thickly. I stood and removed my pants, socks, and underwear and climbed into the bed with her, letting the bed curtain fall and drape across the opening, cocooning us inside and the world without. I lay by her, face to face, and reached up to stroke her hair. "How are you, Esme?"

"Wonderful," she said, "perfectly wonderful." She leaned forward to kiss me. "You're very good at this."

I smiled. "You were right… instinctual." She laughed and kissed me again, moving her body against mine. It was heaven. "I love you, Esme," I murmured into her mouth.

"Oh, my love…"

I rolled her on her back and held myself over her, kissing her deeply. I lowered my body enough that I could feel her breasts on my chest, and my aching length strained against the silk still covering her lower belly. She moaned into my mouth and spread her legs, welcoming me. I felt the instinct to plunge into her right then, but I resisted. There was so much more of her to explore, to worship. I wasn't ready to give in yet to base instincts, though I felt them hiding in the corners of my mind, like all the vampire instincts I resisted. She was beautiful, gentle, welcoming. I would make it clear how much I adored her before taking any pleasure. I wanted this to be nothing but wonderful for her; I'd already made one small error. I wanted no more darkness associated with this: only joy and pleasure and love. I wanted to be her light and air, her music, her colors. I wanted her to make me into her art. I wanted her brushes stroking me, her hand sculpting me. I wanted to be her home, for she was surely mine.

And I wanted more of that spicy elixir.

I moved my kisses down her body, lingering over her breasts until she was gasping, her fingers knotted in my hair. I moved lower, kissing circles around her navel, teasing the edge of her silk tap pants, and she flung her arms up over her head, grasping pillows. I continued down until my lips pressed against her mound through the fabric. Her legs spread wider as she pushed herself into my lips, her scent enthralling me, quenching a thirst, while it created another.

I realized the lace and silk underwear would be a casualty of the evening. There was no way I was moving from between her legs, so I could remove them properly. Pretty as it was, there was no other way. I took the silk between my fingers, and she moaned again as she heard it tear.

She was utterly bare to me. Utterly bare and responsive, and I felt such a vast sense of joy and responsibility. I parted her folds with trembling fingers, exploring the slippery, silken layers, probing until I found the hard bundle of nerves I'd before now only read about, and Esme quaked beneath my fingers. Wondrous. I lowered my mouth, and the flavor coursed through my senses like the shock waves of an earthquake, powerful and startling. I groaned as my mind flashed white, my senses overwhelmed by this: Esme warm and slippery and delicious under my mouth, moving and vibrant and not a dream. A something awoke within me — primal instincts of the beast, perhaps — but it did not feel alien destructive as the beast normally did. It felt… powerful, possessive. It did not take over, but I felt its drive, its approval as I rolled my tongue around the nub in slow circles, savoring everything: the taste, the feel, the way Esme moved below me, the sounds. God, the sounds — vital and free, and reverberating in me like we were two strings of a violin, taut and vibrating with need, in harmony and tension.

I sped my tongue, reveling in her reactions as I continued exploring her folds with my hand. I wanted to be careful and gentle, but her fingers flew to my head, tangled in my hair, pressed me into her — reminded me that Esme was no blushing virgin needing such care. She was a passionate, sensual woman, and she seemed to know what she needed. My finger found her entrance and slid in, exploring the silky heat that contracted around me. I felt dizzy with need for her.

"Please, Carlisle," she gasped. "I need you up here…I need you…"

I climbed back up her body, kissing my way from hips to navel to sternum, hovering over her heart for a moment before continuing to her throat. I stopped when I felt my tip graze her wet folds, and I raised myself to watch her face. She was lost in her pleasure and need, eyes unfocused. She was beautiful — fiercely beautiful and vibrant. That I was privileged to be with her like this, skin to skin, breath to breath, need to need… it overwhelmed me. I looked down on her as she lay lost in her senses, nude except for my crest at her throat. Mine. And, God, how I wanted her. I wanted my mark on her everywhere. I wanted to smell myself on her. I needed her body and soul, her heart and mind, her light and heat. She felt my pause and her eyes searched until she found mine.

"Carlisle, do you need something before…"

"Just your eyes, love."

The swirls of gold in her darkening irises drew me in as I hovered over her. And I saw in her eyes my entire world: acceptance, trust, hope, love, passion. Her eyes were a flurry of emotions, sparkling yet deep. That moment, when I hovered over her, lost in her eyes, the tip of my length poised at her entrance, seemed to last an eternity. And then…and then… she whimpered and tilted her hips, inviting me, drawing me in a fraction of an inch. Our breath expelled in unison, and the spell holding me still was broken. As I drew my next breath, I pushed in slowly, slowly, and the glory of the feeling overthrew me. Esme's eyes rolled shut, and she matched my breath. And I pushed and slid until finally I was completely surrounded by her heat.

Carnality was supposed to be the opposite of reverence, but I knew now that was a lie. For _this_ was truly sacred. Inside Esme. I was _inside_ Esme… surrounded by her body, as well as her love… and this was _glorious_, a communion. More holy than anything I'd ever experienced and… _and… _ the most decadent, visceral, carnal pleasure I'd ever enjoyed. She was all slippery heat, and I could feel her press against every inch of my length. And I savored it: the warmth and the pressure and the feeling of being consumed. I wanted to be consumed. I wanted to be utterly destroyed. And I was still so scared of harming her. I lowered my forehead to hers, and she rocked her head slightly, nuzzling our brows together. She showed no signs of the discomfort or fear I worried might plague her.

"Carlisle," she whispered, wrapping her arms around my neck, twisting her fingers into my hair, and tilting her face so our lips met. More warmth and softness, as her tongue found mine, and we were linked in yet one more way. And then she tilted her hips again, grinding her nub into me and causing exquisite friction along my length. I groaned and pulled back, finishing what her motions had begun.

I moved, and I was moved. As I drew out of her and drew breath with her, my body was possessed by drives I couldn't name — couldn't tell, even, if they were the drives of men or of vampires. But they felt _right_, and Esme clung to me as I entered her over and over. Our bodies melded, beating a rhythm, composing music of breath and friction. Her name fell from my lips like a prayer and was met with my own name whispered against my lips by hers. Any feelings of transcendence I had ever experienced in my existence could not compare to this. I moved in and out, and our breath matched: in and out. A delicious tension built and coiled and wound within me, driving me forward, driving me into her.

"Esme."

It was my new supplication. Her name. And earnestly, reverently, I whispered it as her light and pressure grew within me. I rocked insistently, nearly blind to anything that wasn't her heat surrounding me, her breath filling me, her sounds washing through me. And then the glint of pearls caught my eyes: her throat beneath my crest, the pearls partially hiding my bite. And I was drawn to it, my tongue pushing the beads away to expose the raised skin of my crescent bite on her milky, shimmering flesh. I needed to consume her.

I needed to be consumed.

She arched, and I plunged deeper into her, chasing the sounds of her pleasure, chasing my own. The pleasure bound us — bound our souls, as well as our bodies. And still I needed more. My tongue swept across the crescent scar again, and Esme shuddered and moaned beneath me. I scraped my teeth along the risen line of flesh, and Esme scratched her fingers down my back, clutching me closer. My fingers tangled in her curls, and she turned her head, exposing her scar in the delicious curve of her throat. I didn't want to do anything to hurt her, but God… she was laid out beneath me, and part of this was so familiar, so reminiscent of when I'd first sunk my teeth through her flesh—

"Do it," she whispered, knowing what I wanted, knowing what drives were gripping me. "Make me yours again. Make me yours."

I groaned, still resisting. And her legs wrapped tighter around me, her fingers sharp in my back and in my hair, her body rocking with my thrusts.

"Take all of me, Carlisle. I want all of you. Everything. Give me everything."

My teeth found their place on that perfect crescent and sliced in. Esme wailed in ecstasy, quaking and clenching around my length as her sweet venom flooded my mouth: a final communion. My world consisted only of her wrapped around me and under me as my final thrusts rocked us, my mouth still clamped onto her neck, her venom on my tongue, her scent in my nose and her heat everywhere, everywhere. Straining, I thrust into her as far as I could, and white-hot joy seared the base of my spine and radiated outward, blinding my mind as I felt the rush of everything I was surging into her. And then I was floating, cradled in her legs and arms and gentling fingers. I licked her wound closed as I felt her ragged breath slowing and then buried my face in her neck. Her fingers carded through my hair, holding me in place. Nothing existed beyond her and the joining of our bodies, our hearts, our souls. In the wake of that final explosion of joy, I closed my eyes, finally still, and slowly became aware of Esme's arms pulling me against her, clasping me to her as if to protect me. For a long while, we clung to each other like that, bodies still connected in the most intimate way as our minds and breath returned to a more normal state.

Normal. What could ever be normal now?

I recovered slowly, her sweet fingers caressing my hair, and I realized I was changed forever. I would never again feel whole if I were apart from her. Nearly three centuries of isolation washed away in the joy and union of one night. It was startling.

Eventually, I propped myself onto my elbows, so I could see her face, my thumbs stroking her cheekbones as I studied her. She looked completely content and radiant. She smiled, and I kissed her gently, coiling my fingers in her hair, loose now from its twisting, swept bun. I was unwilling to break the silence, yet worried I might be hurting her...

"Do you want me to get up?" I finally asked between kisses.

"No!" Esme cried, wrapping her ankles over my legs and grasping my shoulders.

I chuckled. "Aren't I getting heavy, Esme?"

"You will be, at some point," she said kissing me. "But right now your weight is the only thing keeping me from floating up toward the ceiling and getting tangled in the bed canopy."

I laughed at her imagery, but I understood what she meant. I felt light, too. And I didn't want to lose the connection with her yet. I kissed her again, wanting to talk, but not knowing how to describe the profound and fundamental shift I'd just experienced. Her eyes scanned my face as she stroked the curve of my cheekbone and then met mine. Now that our bodies were relaxed, our minds were catching up with all that had happened. I gazed at her, my wife now, in every sense save a piece of paper. My wife.

"You look like you're reeling a bit," she said.

Startled, I looked into her eyes; they were still full of love.

"You know me so well?" I asked.

"I do, actually," she acknowledged, continuing to stroke my cheek. "It's been an eventful day. You usually deliberate much more than this before a decision; it must be unsettling. You can trust this, though…" she added, her fingers exploring my face and neck gently.

I smiled and kissed her deeply. "Actually, I've been _deliberating_ for what feels like ages." She laughed and traced my cheekbone. "And yet, it does feels sudden. When the sun rose yesterday morning, I was on a train with a ring I'd found only hours earlier in my pocket and nerves in my stomach. And now…" I reached for her left hand and kissed my ring on it. "Everything's different. It reminds me of medical school…" Her eyebrows lifted in surprised amusement. I smoothed them and continued. "…when I was learning a chemical technique: titration. You add one drop of a fluid at a time to a solution. For endless numbers of drops, there's no visible change, though you know that the concentration is increasing. Then suddenly, there's one pivotal drop, and everything changes. The solution changes color, or a solid precipitates out. Something happens that can't be undone, and everything's different." I kissed her, hoping she understood. "That's me, I think. The change seems sudden, but it's been coming for months, maybe all year. Not a very romantic way of describing it, I'm afraid…"

"So this is your new steady state?" she asked, and I was amused that she'd picked up some terminology over the nights she'd helped me search for diagnostic tools.

"It is," I agreed, kissing her again…long, satisfying kisses.

"I love you, Carlisle," Esme finally spoke. "Not just this," she added, wrapping her arms around me more tightly, "though this is wonderful. I love everything. I'm so glad you saved me. You are my home."

It was the same sentiment she shared in the engraving of her watch, but so much more poignant now that I knew she was mine. It washed away the last of my fears. Before her Christmas gift, I'd never known, would never dare ask, if she'd forgiven me for making her live through the pain of losing her child, the pain she'd tried to spare herself. That pain would always be with her, I knew. She loved too deeply to set it aside completely. But now she loved me too, and I knew that love would also be deep; Esme was incapable of loving halfway. And we'd find joy together, pleasure together. And she loved Edward, differently, of course, but just as truly. We _were_ a home.

"Esme." I said it like a prayer. I lowered my mouth to hers, coiling my fingers in and out of her hair, and felt myself twitch deep within her. She smiled through her kiss, tightening her arms around my neck.

"Welcome home, Carlisle," she whispered into my mouth, and I groaned with need for her.

We made love again, and our hearts and minds and bodies exulted. Our fingers were entwined; our lips never left each other's. When we finally came in unison, I rolled off her to lie on my back, my hand stroking her hair and shoulder her as she nestled in the crook of my arm. We lay quietly like that for a long time, content.

In whispered voices, we shared secrets: my relief that I could please her despite my inexperience, her worry over the last year that I'd never see her as more than a child, how it was that I'd lived for nearly 300 years without experiencing this — "I didn't know you yet" being the obvious answer. We told stories to make each other laugh and just enjoyed the novelty of being naked and entwined and completely comfortable. In the wee hours of the morning, we made love again, Esme exploring my body this time in ways I had no idea would feel so sublime. When we finished, her hands on my chest as she straddled me and her hair forming a canopy around our kiss, I whispered, "You are my home too, Esme." I held her tight against my chest as the first light blossomed across the sky outside.

A new day. My first as a husband. And all my days from this point on would be illuminated by the light and love of Esme.

I was a _very_ happy man.

* * *

_AN: A picture of Esme's dress will be posted on my profile. (Just ignore those "wings." I assume that scaffolding is not actually part of the dress, and is merely helping to show the embroidery.) _

_Thank you all so much for reading._


	32. Chapter 32

_AN: Many thanks to Juji_loo and Coleen561 for serving as betas. You ladies are awesome. Music from this chapter will be added to the playlist, accessible from my profile. _

_We are starting this chapter from where we left off…in bed._

* * *

Chapter 32

CPOV

In whispered voices, we shared secrets: my relief that I could please her despite my inexperience, her worry over the last year that I'd never see her as more than a child, how it was that I'd lived for nearly 300 years without experiencing this — "I didn't know you yet" being the obvious answer. We told stories to make each other laugh and just enjoyed the novelty of being naked and entwined and completely comfortable. In the wee hours of the morning, we made love again, Esme exploring my body this time in ways I had no idea would feel so sublime. When we finished, her hands on my chest as she straddled me and her hair forming a canopy around our kiss, I whispered, "You are my home, too, Esme." I held her tight against my chest as the first light blossomed across the sky outside.

"We should get dressed," she sighed regretfully. I smiled and kissed her again.

"Yes, this will be awkward enough for him, without finding us actually in bed still."

"He'll be fine," she said, laughing. She got up and started toward the bathroom. Despite the fact that I'd spent the entire night looking at her and touching her, my breath hitched as I caught sight of her body again, illuminated in the pale champagne light of morning. She disappeared into her bathroom, and in a moment heard the water running. I lazed in bed — another new experience for me — and savored the ethereal view of the light shining through the sheers of the canopy. I stretched and breathed deeply of the golden air, suffused with the scent of our lovemaking. It felt — luxurious almost. I was happy and tired and energized and _completely_ sated… not that it would last long if I looked at Esme again.

As if on cue, the water shut off, and I got up and followed her into the bathroom. She was testing the water, her hair coiled into a bun so she could bathe without getting it wet. When she saw me in the doorway, she asked "Can you behave yourself if we share, or do you need to bathe downstairs?"

I pulled her into a tight embrace. She knew my answer immediately, laughing against my kiss. "Do you know," I asked, "I think it's going to be physically painful to walk away from you?"

"It can't be more painful than staying away from each other the last few months has been…and I'll be waiting for you on the sofa in ten minutes," she reassured me.

"That's true. Okay… ten minutes." I gave her one last kiss and bolted from the room before I could change my mind, leaving her joyful laugh behind me.

I was on the sofa in eight minutes, bathed and dressed, with the heavy weight of Esme's watch secure in my pocket. The music room was decorated for Christmas, and though I knew we'd likely be leaving for Chicago today, I couldn't bring myself to take any of it down yet. I started a fire in the hearth. I looked at the stack of medical journals that I'd never read on the train, but my mind was still too full of my own joy to concentrate on disease or breakthroughs in treatment. I sat on the sofa and watched the flames and grinned like a lovesick fool, holding a journal in my hand to feign reading if necessary.

Esme came down a few moments later, barefoot but wearing a lovely light blue dress.

"Oh, it's snowing again," she said, looking out the window at the drifting flakes.

"Hmmm," I agreed. "A storm must have blown in again last night. I have a vague memory of wind, though I felt no cold."

She grinned. "Nor I." She stretched her fingers and then touched her ring with her thumb, as if checking that it was real. It looked well on her, and the flashes of blue fire in the opal matched her dress.

"Come here," I said gently, reaching my hand out to her. To my wife.

She walked around the table to settle on my left, curling up next to me and resting her hand on my chest where the ring stood out like a beacon. I put an arm around her and gave her a kiss on the brow and then another on her lips when she looked up. She settled her head in the crook of my arm, watching the fire, too, and I felt an almost premonition, that this is how we would spend our days from now on. Reading or talking, I would sit with Esme nestled at my side. My grin grew a little wider.

A few minutes later, I heard a rhythmic noise coming from the forest. Esme gave me a questioning look, and then I realized it was Edward, whacking tree trunks as he passed them, warning us of his approach.

_Come on in, Edward. We're in the music room. It was… an eventful evening. Esme and I are together now. And Edward, we should talk, I think, before we leave for Chicago…_

"Good morning, you two," he said mischievously as he walked in.

"Good morning Edward," Esme said. "Did you find your mountain lion?"

"I did! The livestock of Wisconsin are safe once again. There were two actually, and one of them knocked me over and got my shirt dirty." He pulled at the fabric on his shoulder to show us the spot. He took such pride in eating neatly that this was truly annoying to him. I laughed at his irritation. "I'm going to go clean up," he finished.

_But I'd like to talk…_ Everything had happened so quickly last night, and I regretted nothing, but did not want it to make Edward uncomfortable, and the sooner—

"Later, Carlisle," he said, bounding up the stairs two at a time.

* * *

EPOV

I took my time cleaning up, testing myself to see if I could keep their thoughts at bay. Or see if I could at least limit my perception to their general tenor and not receive any of the detail. It was easy at first; they talked about the move, about logistics, and Esme's concerns about her exposure to humans, though there was really little to worry about there. We'd been taking her out consistently at night, though not as often as when we'd first began her training, and she never showed any signs of difficulty. Discomfort, perhaps, but her control was fine.

I wasn't sure if they were purposefully trying, for my benefit, to distract themselves from thoughts of their evening, but I appreciated their attempts at normal thoughts and conversation. I concentrated on bathing and thought about what was left to be packed. I did my best, as I had the last several months, to imagine that my mind was in a quiet room surrounded by thick walls that other people's thoughts couldn't penetrate unless I purposefully opened a window. It sort of worked. Their thoughts became muffled like background noise. But, of course, that level of diligence is difficult to maintain. Esme slipped first. Her sudden burst of joy was so strong and loud I was startled into listening. It's always hard to tune out at that point. So I got my first visions of what had happened the night before, as well as some of what was said.

I was relieved to see that he'd treated her so well. I knew he would, of course; Carlisle would never be hurtful on purpose. But I'd relived so much of the abuse Esme's husband had inflicted upon her via her thoughts that it was still a visceral relief to see things not go that way. Carlisle's lack of experience and Esme's fears could have made for a disastrous combination. I sighed and tried harder to tune her out. I caught a glimpse of the wedding — _wedding?_ I would have to talk to Carlisle about that. I concentrated on getting dressed, the composition — anything to block Esme's thoughts. When I was dressed, I went back downstairs and sat at the piano.

_Edward?_

"Give me a few more minutes," I mumbled as I tried a new ending on the movement I'd worked on yesterday. It still started with plaintive notes, but the resolution was getting much warmer, moving away from the minor chords that had been plaguing it — and me — for weeks. I saw the vision in Carlisle's mind of Esme in her ivory dress under the tree, crystals of snow falling around her face, and my right hand moved up an octave, giving voice to the light beauty of the moment. Esme noticed the difference, and I heard her thoughts turn to me, happy. I charted out the new main theme, knowing that I would develop it further, and create a subtheme just for Esme later. When I was satisfied that I was on the right track, I closed the piano and stood in front of Carlisle. He looked up, and I tilted my head toward the door, letting him know I was ready.

He kissed the top of Esme's head, and she looked up from where she was curled next to him on the sofa. "We'll be back soon," he said. She looked startled, but nodded and got up.

"I can try to get that stain out for you, Edward."

"Thanks, Esme," I said as I followed Carlisle out the door. He turned and looked at me, but before he could ask a question, I said, "Lead the way, old man," a grin on my face. He rolled his eyes and took off. In a moment, I'd caught up. "The more things change, the more they stay the same," I said with a wink.

We ran hard: hard enough that we weren't thinking much. We passed out of state, and the forest grew thicker. We climbed a gentle grade that ended abruptly with a rocky clearing that overlooked a series of lakes in the valley below. Carlisle stood at the edge as I came up beside him.

"This is a nice spot," I commented, sitting with my legs over the edge and getting comfortable for what I expected would be a long chat.

He hummed a response and continued to look out at the horizon for a minute, trying to get his thoughts in order. When he finally sat beside me, close enough to bump shoulders, they were still too chaotic for me to get a sense of.

"So what's on your mind, Carlisle? Or rather, of all the various things on your mind, what do you want to talk about?"

He looked at me and laughed. "I'm pretty scattered, huh?"

"Well, it's been that way for a while, hasn't it? Your thoughts have been all over the place all at once. It's good to see some of that resolved." I looked out over the expanse of forest.

"You're really all right with it?" he asked seriously.

I looked at him, surprised. "Of course! You and Esme… well, it seemed obvious a long time ago. I'm frankly surprised that you took as long as you did."

He shook his head. "As you well know, my own feelings were rather confused until a month ago, and then I wasn't at all sure of Esme," he said with a smile. It was a gentle accusation. She must have divulged some time during the night just how long she had thought of him romantically. Not that he'd been ready to hear it before now, responsible sire that he was.

"I was trying to be a gentleman, Carlisle. What could I have told you that would have been fair to Esme?" He sighed, knowing I was right. "And if I had alerted you, you might have thought it was still her school-girl crush, or you may have acted too soon. Her thoughts were still quite tumultuous not too long ago. If I'd said something, and then things hadn't worked out, it would have been my fault. It was better, _much_ better, for you two to work it out on your own. Besides, the precedent it would have set…" I said, making a face, "…none of us needs that."

He laughed at that. "You're right; of course, you're right. Still, in the future, if you see me making a fool of myself for more than six months or so at a time, could you please give me some subtle hint… let me know that I need to rethink my assumptions?"

"That sounds fair," I said, grinning, "though I'd hardly say you looked like a fool. More like an overly humble Puritan sire. Just realize I won't answer any specific questions."

"Agreed," he said. Both of us were visibly relaxing. We hadn't talked like this for a long time — since Esme awoke, really. We'd had to keep such a close eye on her for so long we hadn't had the time to just talk as men."

"So, this is a big change… how are you holding up?" I finally asked, aware of some of the answer, but again, not sure which of the many thoughts he was having were primary.

He sighed. "It's so much more than I realized it would be. I've seen human relationships, and maybe it is just hubris, but this seems so much deeper. I feel physically changed. More like, I imagine, an animal that's found a life-mate than a man who's found a wife."

That was good. Esme would be destroyed if Carlisle ever rejected her after she'd allowed herself to fall in love with him. That seemed unlikely now.

"Well, we are part human and part beast in many ways. It makes sense that you would feel some of both sentiments, I suppose."

He nodded, and his thoughts turned to me, worried. I remembered his jealousy when I was standing too closely to her when he came down from that _infamous_ bath.

"I love her, but not like that. There's no problem between us, Carlisle. Unless you hurt her," I added, giving him a sharp look.

He smiled. "I'll do my utmost not to…"

_I'm more worried that you remain comfortable in your home, Edward. I imagine there's only so much of what is happening between me and Esme that you are comfortable witnessing. _

"Or that you are comfortable having me witness," I agreed, sighing. "I'm still learning to block you out. My success is… spotty…"

"I understand. Actually, I reconciled myself to the lack of privacy a long time ago, Edward. You are worth it."

I smiled. "Thanks. That's nice to know. But still, this changes things."

_Yes, I imagine it does._

"Do you want me to leave for a while?" This was in his head, but the thoughts around it weren't clear.

_No!_ His response was immediate, and I knew, truthful.

"Esme would be heartbroken, too, if you left. So, assuming you stay, and assuming living with us will be hard for you, given what you'll witness, what can I do to help?" I saw now that this was the crux of his concern. This had been my home first. He wanted me to stay, wanted us to be a family, however we decided to define that. He wanted to do what he could to make this transition easier for me so that I _could_ stay.

I sighed and thought about it. "I actually think in some ways it will be easy to live with you, with both of your thoughts being so happy and content. It's the intimacy that's the issue. And it's worse reliving your thoughts than hers."

"Why is that?" he asked, curiosity winning out over decorum.

"Well, in part it's because I'm used to Esme thinking about sex."

_What?!_

I pursed my lips. I'd mostly kept this from him. He'd guessed. He knew me well enough to guess at what I was reacting to, why I'd gone to Columbus and assisted Charles with his demise. He'd heard enough of Esme's history from her to have an idea of her abuse, but he wasn't fully aware of the details. The details I had lived with for _months_.

"When she lay on her bed, day after day for those first months, she wasn't just mourning her baby. She was also reliving her marriage. She awoke to find herself living with two men, and the last time she'd lived with a man it hadn't been a good experience. She thought about it… a lot." I looked at him. "I did the world a favor when Charles Evenson died, just as I did when I dispatched those mountain lions last night. He was a monster. He makes us look like saints. Anyway," I said, holding up my hands before Carlisle could voice the questions in his mind, "I'm used to Esme thinking about sex, and it's _infinitely_ more pleasant to have her thinking about it and being happy. And it's such a foreign experience, seeing it through her eyes, that there's no confusion… I'm viscerally aware that these are her thoughts and not mine. They're… an interesting perspective, I suppose, but nothing more. And I've already seen you naked. It's just, somehow, not that shocking.

"But seeing your thoughts of the same events — feeling your desire when you look at her, knowing how she looks under her dress, seeing how she looks at you when you touch her — it's much more confusing, much more difficult. I love her like a sister, or an aunt; I don't want to see her that way and then have her ruffle my hair like I'm her boy. It's _wrong_. Please, Carlisle!"

He realized that his mind had wandered as I'd talked, and he put a vision of her in his mind where she was fully clothed. It was an improvement, but he was still noticing her curves under the dress. "Carlisle!" The vision changed again, just her face, but it was lit up with desire. "Think of a landscape, Carlisle!" A bucolic Italian countryside filled his mind. "Not the one hanging over the sofa… now I'm going to think of sex whenever I see that painting," I groaned.

"Sorry, Edward," he chuckled, and his mind filled with a picture of the Scottish moors.

"That's better," I said, trying to steady my breathing. He was concerned, but laughing. It _was_ funny, or would be if it weren't happening to me. "We're not going to Scotland any time soon, right?"

"No." He chuckled. "And I promise I won't buy any paintings of that region either." I glared at him, but I was amused. "Edward, what are we going to do?" he asked laughing. "I have no more control than a newborn!"

"No, you do actually. _Esme_ has no more control than a newborn." I laughed and shook my head.

"Poor boy, I'm so sorry," he said, still laughing, but I read in his thoughts that he was pleased she couldn't stop thinking about him. I rolled my eyes and looked out over the forest again.

"We'll make it work, Carlisle. If you take a night shift, you'll be gone most evenings, and I can be home then. I'll make sure I spend my mornings away from the house, so you have some privacy. Then we'll do our best in the afternoons. I'll practice blocking you out: I'll have plenty of incentive I imagine."

He chuckled, but then grew serious. "I don't want you hiding from your home, Edward."

"I won't be. But it seems that it will be easier on you if you have a chance to be intimate after your separations, and what's easier on you will be easier on me. I'm sure after a few _decades_ we can work out a different schedule." We both laughed quietly.

"Thank you," he said, seriously again. "You're being very generous."

"No, being able to offer you _actual_ privacy would be generous. But since that's not in my power, we'll all just have to be satisfied with my healthy attitude."

He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder, looking into my face. "Nonetheless, I appreciate it."

I smiled back. "This is going to be good, Carlisle… awkward as hell, but good. And you don't have to worry about showing her affection in front of me: kissing her head, holding her hand, embracing her… that's all incredibly pleasant to be around. Just don't let your mind wander under her clothes." His mind filled with the Scottish moor again. "Exactly!" I said, smiling.

"Okay, I'll do my best."

"So will I." I looked at him. His mind was much more settled than it had been when we arrived, but there were still lingering thoughts. "Is there more you want to talk about?"

"The ceremony. We said our vows to each other last night and consu—"

I held up my hand abruptly.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat, "we'd still like to have a ceremony in Chicago with a Justice of the Peace, and I'd like you to be my Best Man."

"It would be my honor. Too bad we can't risk bringing Rachel to Chicago. I'll just have to serve as witness for both of you. Oh, and my family home is empty right now. Between tenants. It occurred to me that it might be a more private and comfortable place for a honeymoon than a hotel. And it's furnished. The farmhouse is empty, too, of course, but we'd have to buy a bed and other things to make it comfortable. So I just thought… you don't have to, of course, if you'd rather treat her to an expensive hotel downtown, but I wanted to offer it. I can spend a few days in the farmhouse, meeting you and Esme in tow to show her some sights for a day or two, and then head off to Connecticut and give you some time to… get settled…" I was waving my hand, trying to think of an appropriate euphemism that wouldn't send his thoughts into the gutter.

"That's very generous, Edward," he said with a strange hitch in his voice. I looked at him, noting the emotion in his expression. His thoughts were ranging widely, from our time together in Chicago to my help when Esme first came to us. His gratitude was almost overwhelming.

"I don't know where I'd be in this life without you, Edward. I can't begin to express what you mean to me. I don't think I could have been successful with Esme without your assistance, but more than that, I don't…" He looked away for a moment, finding his words. "I don't know who I would be now as a _man_ if I hadn't met you… if I didn't have you in my life. You told me once, when you were a newborn, that I ground you, that having access to my mind helps you find a safe mooring in the tumultuous world. It's the same for me. He turned back to look at me. "I rely on you so much, and I wonder if you truly know. This change with Esme is wonderful, but I don't want it to make you doubt… _ever_… your place in my heart."

I couldn't respond at first. He was voicing a fear I barely acknowledged, and having it spoken out loud made me feel… raw and exposed. But soothed at the same time. It was a promise. Things were changing, but this friendship was beyond that. It's importance endured. I breathed out my relief slowly, not even aware that I'd been holding my breath.

"Thank you, Carlisle. I… you both mean a lot to me, and I know this can work. We'll just do our usual thing of making it up as we go along." He snorted a soft laugh and relaxed a bit. "We should do this more, though, " I said, moving my hand between us. "We've both spent the last year focused on Esme, and it was good… it needed to be done. But I've missed this."

"Me, too," he said softly. "Maybe once we get settled in Connecticut, you and I can go on a hunting trip, just the two of us. I'm sure Esme would love the opportunity to put her mark on the house without us in the way. Unless you want to go for a longer run now… the movers come tomorrow?"

"Yes," I said standing and reaching a hand out to help him up. "There's too much to do now for any more manly bonding, and hunting is about the last thing on my mind. I'm surprised I could run this far; I feel so sloshy after last night."

He laughed, and his thoughts strayed to _his_ activities last night, and then, abruptly, to the Scottish moors.

"You're getting the hang of it," I said laughing.

He shook his head, looking out over the forest again, smiling. He was missing her. It was sweet.

"Shall we head home to Esme?" I asked.

"Let's," he agreed, and we turned in unison and started running back.

The following day found us driving south with a car full of suitcases after Carlisle and I had met with the realtor and movers, and Esme had been taken hunting. The roads were slick with snow and ice, which meant we pretty much had them to ourselves. Esme was worried at first, but soon realized that Carlisle's reflexes were up to the task of navigating the slips and skids. He may have been showing off a bit.

The farmhouse was just as we'd left it, and Esme insisted on hearing me play the upright before we ventured into town. Carlisle went to the courthouse to get the paperwork and schedule the ceremony, and I took Esme shopping.

We were assured by the bridal shop assistants that the ivory dress from France I'd picked up for her on my last trip to Chicago was perfectly in style as a wedding dress —despite only coming down to just below the knees — if paired with a tulle veil that dragged at least eight feet behind her. Seemed simple enough.

Of course, it wasn't. Finding tulle veils was easy enough; the problem was what they wanted to put on her head. Esme turned to me and raised her eyebrows in question as she modeled the first veil and headpiece, which had tulle built up on the back of her head in pleats so high it resembled two fans at war. I shook my head. Next she modeled a lace cloche that covered her entire brow.

"I suspect Carlisle would like to see your eyes in the pictures."

She smirked as the assistants tried several others, finally settling on a very small cloche covered in pearls and lace and a simple, but long, tulle veil. And since they would show under the short skirt, we bought new silk shoes with wide ribbon bows.

Women's fashions… they already seemed like strange things my mother wouldn't have approved of. I could only _imagine_ what things would be like in 100 years, though come to think of it, Carlisle had seen incredible changes during his centuries and seemed content to just accept it without much thought. I think he may have even appreciated the more casual (and in some ways, revealing) fashions of today compared with those of his youth.

Next we looked at flowers, and the size of the bouquets that were fashionable… it was ridiculous.

"You don't have to carry an entire jungle with you, Esme. He won't even be able to see your dress behind all that. And you're not going to have a maid of honor to hold it for you when you exchange rings." She looked at me doubtfully. I lowered my voice, hoping for a bit of privacy from the shop keep. "Historically, Carlisle would have been used to something smaller… like a nosegay. We don't have many choices for blooms this time of year, but holly," I said, pointing at it behind the counter," — domestic bliss. Ivy — fidelity. Lilac would be good — first love — but it's the wrong time of year. White roses — too late for those," I said with a grin, knowing she'd realize they were for purity… hardly appropriate after the Night of the Great Hunt, as I liked to call it. Esme slapped my arm and made excuses to the florist.

"We have tulips. Forced, in the hot house," the florist suggested.

"Yellow — hopelessly in love," I offered.

"I am," Esme said, "but I don't really like them. And they'll clash with the dress. How do you know all this?"

"Carlisle knows it, so now I do."

"But he has to think about it," Esme whispered.

I laughed. "Esme, he's brought you flowers every four days for the last year. Of course, he's thought of it."

The florist brought out some very pale tulips, almost white (forgiveness, which Esme insisted he never needed, but which I knew Carlisle would appreciate all the same), fringed with a yellow pale enough _not_ to clash with the dress.

"Oh, and the finishing touch," the florist said, going to the back room and coming back with a delicate spray of forget-me-nots.

"True love, constancy," I offered.

"Perfect," said Esme.

We finalized the order, saying we'd call when we were sure of the time, and left the store.

"How are you feeling?" I asked as we walked down the street. I'd been monitoring her mind all day and felt sure that she was not struggling too much with the scent of humans, but I knew that it could still be wearying, even if it wasn't dangerous yet.

"I'm fine, but maybe we should head back soon."

"One more stop?"

"Okay," she agreed.

We stopped at Jackson's Men's Clothier, where Carlisle and I used to shop, and picked up a new suit for Carlisle. They still had his measurements on file, and though I knew he'd wanted one for the wedding, I couldn't see him taking time away from Esme to shop for one. I looked at my watch. He should be done at the courthouse and meeting with Mr. Campbell to make the changes to his Will and other documents. It was time to head back.

We had three days before the wedding. We spent part of it together, going to museums and showing Esme Scott's music and other places we'd frequented. I was sad to realize that I would not be able to visit again. Too much time would have gone by, and my lack of aging would have been obvious. As it was, Mr. Scott was happy to see me, but kept giving me strange looks. His thoughts showed that he'd noticed how little I'd changed, and he was trying to decide if it was because of the illness… if I'd been stunted. I knew it had been a risk to come, but I'd told Esme so much about the old place that I couldn't resist. It smelled exactly as I remembered. Esme and Carlisle soon grew restless and decided to take a walk through the park while I browsed. A few minutes after they left, he enquired after my piano.

"I hope it's okay," I said, running my fingers over the new Steinway he had in his shop. "It's on a train heading east right now. We're in the middle of a move for Carlisle's work. Would you mind if I played yours for a while? It's been a few days."

"I'd be delighted, Mr. Masen! Do you need me to pull any music?"

I shook my head and smiled as I sat. I was relieved to get to play for a practice audience.

Mr. Scott sat rapt during the twelve minutes of the piece and then clapped as I finished.

"Beautiful! May I ask whose it is?"

"Mine," I answered, confirming his guess. "Written for Carlisle and Esme's wedding day later this week. I thought you should get to hear some of the results of your generosity."

"My generosity? Hardly. Your hard work, I think."

I nodded in acquiescence. "But if you hadn't sent me the Chopin Etudes, the Rachmaninoff, and the staff paper, I may have never taken this path. And for that I am forever in your debt."

"No, lad. I may have encouraged you, but _that_…" He shook his head.

"Do you think they'll like it?"

He scoffed. "They'll love it. How can you doubt, Edward?" His eyes widened. "I'm sorry —"

"No. Please, I'd like you to call me Edward."

There was a brief lull before Mr. Scott said, "Mr. Cullen seemed very happy."

"He is," I said, smiling. "We'll all go to the courthouse on Thursday. Then I just have to find a piano somewhere downtown, so I can play the piece for them before they start their honeymoon."

"Does their reception hall not have a piano?"

"They aren't really having a reception. Just a small ceremony."

Mr. Scott looked disapproving. "But they will wed at the courthouse downtown?"

I nodded.

He smiled. "Well then, let me see what I can arrange."

He went back behind the counter, and I fingered the melody of Rachmaninoff's _Variation on Paganini_ while trying not to listen to his hushed conversation on the phone. A few minutes later, he was back holding out a piece of paper and beaming at me.

"There! All settled. Mr. Flannery is a friend of mine," he said, pointing at the name on the paper. "He manages the ballroom of a hotel two blocks from the courthouse. The Continental. It will be decorated for a Christmas ball that evening, but if you can get there before three in the afternoon, he will let you in to play your piece on a _very_ fine Steinway Grand. I tuned it myself just last week."

"That's perfect," I said, taking the paper and reading the address. "The appointment at the courthouse is at 12:30, so the timing should work well. Thank you so much, Mr. Scott."

"Please, if I am to call you Edward, you must call me Giovanni."

I smiled. "Well, thank you, Giovanni. I am in you debt." I stood, realizing there were other arrangements to make. "I wish I could stay and play your beautiful piano all afternoon, but I should really finish my other errands." I donned my coat and gloves.

"Please come back and play for as long as you are in town. And please let me know if I can offer any other assistance."

"I will," I said, offering him my hand. As he shook it, I regretted that I would likely never see him again. Carlisle always said that the hardest thing about interacting with humans was having to say goodbye before they could guess your secret. I was truly feeling it for the first time. There would be no more trips to Chicago once I left this time. At least not in Giovanni's lifetime. I smiled as I looked around the old shop one more time. Memorizing it. Then I offered him a final smile and wave as I headed to the door, lingering when I reached it.

"There is one thing," I added, turning to see his expectant face. "Do you know of a good photographer I could hire?"

He smiled and beckoned me back in.

It seemed an inordinate amount of planning for something that in the end would take only ten minutes, and which they had, after all, already done. But it was all worth it when I stood beside Carlisle as he watched Esme walk toward him down the aisle. Both his and Esme's minds were singing with joy. When Esme slipped the platinum band on his finger, the extent of his elation was staggering. There were few times in my life when I was surrounded wholly by happy thoughts. Everyone around me was content or blissfully happy, and I let their thoughts wash over me like gentle waves of a warm sea.

We took pictures outside the courthouse, next to some dramatic architectural detail that Esme would love forever, and again in the ballroom, where the huge floral arrangements were just too nice to go to waste — evergreen boughs symbolize eternity after all, Esme had said with a wink. They listened to my gift, standing by the piano with their arms around each other. Their thoughts flowed like a cinema feature. As I played a musical version of their story, culminating with the beauty and resolution of their wedding, memories filtered through their minds matching up with the mood of the music. They both understood without any interpretation from me, and I was gratified that the composition spoke so clearly for itself. Esme beamed with joy, and Carlisle's face reflected happiness as well as pride. When I finished, they clapped and came over as if to hug me, but I launched immediately into Granados' _Passionate Waltz_, nodding at Carlisle as I heard the wistful wish to dance in his mind. He led Esme to the ballroom floor, thanking me mentally, and they became lost in the dance. I followed that with several more of Granados' waltzes — the _Viennese Waltz_, the _Melodic Waltz_, the _Sentimental Waltz_ — and then just improvised on the themes. The waltzes were too short. Carlisle wanted to continue dancing with Esme in his arms, and I just didn't know that many happy, danceable waltzes for piano.

Finally, the doors at the far end of the ballroom opened, and it was time to go. I gave Carlisle the keys to my family home, which I'd checked thoroughly yesterday to make sure it would be ready for their honeymoon. I hugged them both goodbye and ran back to the farmhouse to put it in order. The quiet in my mind was welcome, but a bit sad after being so awash in Esme and Carlisle's happiness.

The next day, I boarded a train to Grand Central Station, surrounded by the incessant hum of hundreds of strangers' thoughts. They were getting easier to tune out, unlike Carlisle's or Esme's. They were unfamiliar. Unimportant. So much white noise. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, dreaming of a concert from Carlisle's memory and looking forward to seeing some more of my own. Jazz, he'd said. New York City jazz. Something new. I wondered if he would let me drag him to speakeasies, like he used to. Esme might not approve; she might think we were going to watch the flappers dance instead of the musicians play. I'd have to work on her.

The realtor met me at the station and drove me to our new home. I monitored his mind for any signs that he was suspicious of what we were, but he was only curious about how someone as young as Carlisle could afford a house, even if it was isolated and old. So I dropped a few hints that Esme and I had inherited some funds when our parents died.

The house was clean and in good repair, and there was little for me to do before the furniture arrived other than explore the area and enjoy the utter mental silence at home. I spent days without having to actively block anyone, and it was relaxing in a way I'd never quite experienced before. By the third day, though, I felt restless and finally called a plumber to have water brought up to the attic. I stayed in his mind as he worked the pipes, and by the end, I was sure I could I could do it myself if I wanted. Really, I'm not sure why Carlisle was so concerned. Plumbing wasn't hard at all.

The furniture arrived, and I spent the day moving it, though I was sure Esme would change everything when she got home, and then the next several days tuning my piano and playing. Playing whatever I wanted, for as long as I wanted, as loud as I wanted. For days.

Eventually, I even grew weary of that. The truth was, I was used to Carlisle's thoughts in my mind. I missed them — though not all of them, of course. I sighed. I was happy for them. _Really_ happy for them. But there were things I would miss. Carlisle always said the hardest thing about knowing humans was saying goodbye, but there was a real sense in which I was saying goodbye to _him_. He was going somewhere in his life I couldn't follow, and though we'd be together, we'd probably never be as close as we once were. I was trying to be philosophical about it. I loved Esme dearly, but it was still sad.

I didn't have much time to wallow, though. Soon they were home, all excitement and easy contentment, and it was hard not to enjoy their happiness. We explored the town together, settled into our new roles at school and work, made this new house into a home.

And for a while, we were happy.

* * *

_AN: The waltzes will be added to the Prelude Playlist (Thanks NixHaw!) for your listening enjoyment. You can access it from my profile. __Thank you so much for reading. _I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	33. Chapter 33

_AN: It's been forever. Sorry. Many thanks to __Juji_loo and Coleen561 for serving as fabulous betas. You ladies are awesome. Music from this chapter has been added to the playlist, accessible from my profile._

_So now, in case you've forgotten:_

_From Chapter 32: '__Soon they were home, all excitement and easy contentment, and it was hard not to enjoy their happiness. We explored the town together, settled into our new roles at school and work, made this new house into a home._

_And for a while, we were happy.'_

* * *

Chapter 33

November 1927

EPOV

"Absolutely not."

"But you haven't even heard the program."

"Edward, we've had this conversation before. If you perform, you will draw attention to yourself, and eventually, you'll draw Aro's attention. It's not safe. I won't permit it."

"You won't perm— Carlisle, do I need to remind you that I am not _actually_ seventeen, and that you are not, in fact, my father... or even my brother-in-law? You and Esme get to do what you are trained for. Why shouldn't I be able to?"

He scrubbed his face. It was an old argument; I was tired of it, too.

"I'm a doctor. Esme paints under multiple pseudonyms and sells her work through a series of middlemen. Those endeavors are completely different from showing off in front of 5000 people where the press will no doubt be covering the event!"

My face must have shown my fury because his eyes widened, and he snapped his jaw shut. He knew he'd gone too far.

"Showing off? Really? It's not showing off to save a man's leg in a surgery that is clearly beyond the skills of any human doctor? It's not showing off to identify infection using your sense of smell? I'm trained as a concert pianist, Carlisle. And pianists perform!"

"Why can't you just make records under a false name?"

"People don't buy classical albums, just popular ones. What would be the point? What's the point of any of this?" I asked, spreading my arms to encompass the music room, the house, our lives. "We pretend to be human, drink crappy blood, teach ourselves things, and why? So I can hide and play for you and Esme? I feel like a trained monkey! I want to play with other musicians. I want to hear the music reverberate through a concert hall, not through the tinny speaker of a gramophone. Why did you let me train if it's so impossible for me follow that career?"

"Your interest seemed academic."

"Academic? What? You thought it was a passing interest? Something to keep me busy for a decade or two? Christ, Carlisle, a piano was the first thing you ever gave me. You know I have a passion for this. You just don't care about my happiness as much as you used to. You think—"

"That is not true, Edward! I care greatly for your happiness, but I also care for your safety. This is dangerous and not just to you. I've heard rumors of Aro wiping out entire covens for the transgressions of a member. Think about the effect on Esme if you have no concern for your own safety or for mine."

And this is what it always came down to. Esme's safety. Their safety. He had his happiness, and now he guarded it ruthlessly. I was part of it, but my own opinions didn't factor in as much as they used to. As much as they should.

"Well, maybe I should do something to protect you, then," I said. His mind immediately reeled with what those words might mean. "I can't talk to you now; I'm too angry. And I apparently have to tell Professor Carson that, despite making top marks, I'm unable to perform in the Christmas concert. He needs time to ask someone else before the program goes to the printer, and I've really messed things up for him. He deserves that much."

I turned to leave. Esme was coming down the stairs, her mind its usual mixture of sympathy and exasperation. She hated when we fought, saw both viewpoints, but always ended up siding with Carlisle. I let the door slam as I ran toward the forest.

I needed to feed before I went back to town. Anger always made my eyes darker than they would be otherwise. I sniffed the air and found only herbivores. The East was too civilized: all the predators had been hunted out long ago in the name of community safety. I was so sick of deer I'd actually tried duck and rodents. It was all disgusting.

_Edward?_

God, couldn't he just be satisfied with getting his own way _all_ the time? I ignored him and began pursuing a deer, so I could get my trip into town over with. Of course, nothing that subtle worked on Carlisle when he was determined. He leaned against a tree as I fed, watching and noting how rote it all seemed, how little pleasure I seemed to take in it. I closed my eyes, so I didn't have to see the concern in his face.

"Esme thinks I'm overreacting," he finally said.

I finished my meal and stood. "Well, far be it from me to argue with Esme. She is the only one who can tell you anything anymore," I said, wiping my mouth with my fingers, knowing I sounded petulant.

"Edward…"

I was pleased to hear the exasperation in his voice. What I said was true. He'd stopped listening to me ages ago.

"If this really means that much to you, we'll take the risk."

I looked away into the forest. How could he not know what this meant? When had he become so careful? No, that wasn't it. We were always careful, but we _lived_ — we took risks. We took more risks than most of our kind, interacting with humans the way that we did. The vampires that were really careful were the ones who stole in under cover of darkness, fed on the humans, and disappeared into the night. What we did was inherently risky. Carlisle knew this; he was constantly asking me to monitor the thoughts of the humans around us to gauge that risk around our pursuits. And yet when it came to a risk I wanted, he—

"Edward, we have to be careful. You appear so young to be as good as you are. It will draw attention-"

Anger flared in me. "And whose fault is that? Honestly, Carlisle, your career was the only thing that kept you sane in the centuries before you met me. What makes you think I'd be happy as a perpetual student? Do you have any idea how insipid the minds of teenagers are? Real teenagers," I added when I noticed the quirk in his lips, "not me. Don't you dare find humor in this." I tugged at my hair absently. "This is my chance to play with real musicians. To have something I wrote arranged for the orchestra and hear it as it was meant to be heard. Why can't you see how important that is? Even if I only get to do it once a decade, it's huge. I thought you'd be…"

I looked away again, trying to get enough control that my emotions wouldn't show in my voice. Anger was one thing. Anger I was willing to show him. But this felt much bleaker and longer lasting.

I'd thought he'd be... happy for me. Proud, maybe. Not this. Not angry and resentful.

"You're disappointed in me," he said, and I turned to see his face. His expression was soft now. Pained. He didn't like to fail me.

I sighed and scrubbed my face with my hand. "Carlisle, it's my last term at the conservatory. I started six years ago. This is my last concert, and they want to honor me. And you don't want me to perform. I'll admit — it's not the reaction I was hoping for."

He sighed and leaned against the tree again. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just… you've been photographed. The last two concerts, when you played the Chopin, your photo was in the paper."

I nodded. "True. I didn't mean to let it happen. I was partially hidden in one. But you don't honestly think Aro can get our local paper."

"No," Carlisle admitted. "But this is a bigger concert, and if the New York paper covers it, word could get to him... And if the reporters look back at older pictures of you, someone might notice you haven't aged."

"If, if, if..." I muttered, running my hands through my hair. "I get the idea of the rules, old man, but you are getting paranoid. There's no reason to be stifling! It's just one show, and then I won't have a chance to play with musicians again until we move in a few years. Who knows where we'll be by then, maybe somewhere that doesn't even have music."

God, I hated this. He rarely went into New York with me anymore, not like when we first got here, and we both took pleasure in introducing Esme to jazz and night clubs. But now he never went into the City — we may as well live in New Hampshire — and soon I could find myself even more isolated. I'd started sneaking into the city at night just to hear something new, anything new. He just gravitated further and further from me and then tried to make rules, so I'd follow. And I was done with it.

"You know what? I'm doing it. You don't get to choose. You don't have to come or act proud or anything. You and Esme can go take a trip until the chance of any repercussions fades. But if I don't do this, I'll regret it the rest of my life, and thanks to you, that's a very long time."

"Edward, of course, I'm proud of you. The piece is beautiful."

"You've never even heard it. Not properly. Not with the orchestra. It's a concerto, Carlisle. The piano is the focus, but it's supported by the strings. I don't expect you to understand. But if I don't do this, I will resent you for it."

_More than you do now._

"Yes," I acknowledged, regretfully. "More than I do now." When had we gotten like this? Everything was a battle, and I felt so tired all the time. Tired of everything except music. I would seriously be _mad_ now without the music.

"Okay."

"Okay _what_, Carlisle?" I spat, and then his thoughts hit me. "Oh..."

He hated it, too, the breach between us. And he _was_ proud, and truly did want to hear the music the way I intended. He was willing to take a risk to make me happy. Even if it felt like a sacrifice. Even if it made him a bit resentful.

So that was the choice. I could resent him, or he could resent me. Perfect.

"Okay, we'll come. We will be supportive since this is the last one. You're right. The risk is worth you getting to pursue this opportunity." It sounded real. But then his thoughts turned to Esme, and I saw his concern flare up. Visions of Aro taking her. It was all just to appease me. He still didn't like the risk. Nothing was really solved. Somehow, my interests were still pitted against his, though they never used to be. I was honestly starting to wonder if it was worth it. I used to survive on his approval; he even used to look for mine. Now he was always so sure he was right.

_Edward?_

I looked at him and saw concern in his face. Searching his thoughts, I found the hardened expression he'd seen on my face. And fear. Real fear that he was going to lose me over this, as well. And he might, but Aro would have little to do with it. I scrubbed my face with my hand, trying to see his concerns as reasonable, but failing. Still, he was trying to consider my priorities in all this. He'd agreed to the concert. That had to count for something.

"Thank you. I still need to head into town to go over last minute changes in the orchestration. Do you want to come with me?"

His expression brightened. "Sure."

We ran to town, slowing to a brisk walk when we reached the first homes. We took 8th Street because Carlisle liked the historic houses and large trees. It wasn't a route I used often, preferring the more direct way, but we walked in a reasonably comfortable silence as I followed Carlisle's thoughts as he admired this stained glass window or that balcony. Suddenly, a thought from one of the houses startled me. I stopped, turning abruptly to locate the source.

_Edward?_

I held up my hand to stop him, and he watched me as the scene unfolded in my mind, so similar to Esme's memories that I thought I might retch. I barely registered Carlisle's hand on the back of my neck, his thoughts trying to gain my attention, his eyes trying to meet mine. All I could sense was _him — somewhere —_ pushing her onto the bed, the sting of the slap, the sound of the fabric as he tore at her blouse. I was in motion before I knew I'd made the decision to act.

"Edward, what are you doing?"

"Stopping him," I growled through gritted teeth.

"Stopping whom?" he asked, following me.

_Edward, you can't just barge into someone's house. How will you explain it? What's happening? We can get the police, perhaps-_

"It'll be too late," I muttered as I kept moving. He grabbed my arm, forcing me to turn to him. I was about to growl when the vision - full of torn fabric and rough hands and moans… moans? I shook my head to clear it. He was forcing her, wasn't he? He was holding her down, roughly baring her, positioning her. But she wasn't screaming or crying. She was moaning, smiling... I shook my head, trying to clear it, as a stray thought of hers came through. _Better than last time_. Oh, God… I tried to block it, turning physically away from the house.

_Edward?_

My mind focused on Carlisle again, his face full of concern and confusion. I broke his grasp on my arm and strode quickly down the block. He moved to keep up.

"Are you okay? What happened back there?"

I held my hand up, trying to cut the question short.

"False alarm," I answered, still putting as much distance as I could between the house and myself.

We made it to the conservatory and found Professor Carson rehearsing Beethoven with the orchestra. The brooding music didn't really help me shake my unease after the thoughts that had accosted me during my walk, but I made an attempt to clear my mind of anything but the task at hand. At the end of the movement, the orchestra took a break, and Professor Carson came over to us, thrilled to meet my brother-in-law again. He and Carlisle chatted about my talents as a composer, while I pulled out the staff papers from my inner jacket pocket and spread them on the table.

"Another change, Edward?" he finally asked me, turning away from Carlisle to look at the papers.

"The last one, I promise. It felt too much like the winds were fighting the piano yesterday. I want to move this harmony to the cellos and violas," I said, pointing at the relevant section of music. "An octave down from where it was, and then I added a counterpoint solo for the first violin, if you think it can be added this late."

He looked at the three sheets of music — cello, violin, and piano — and then looked up to wave over the first violinist.

"Care to add to your performance, Jonathan?" he asked.

I met Jonathan's questioning gaze. "It's not a long sequence," I reassured. "Just sixteen measures. But it will tie the melody from the first movement into this final section, and I like the idea of the interplay."

He read it over, tapping out the rhythms with his finger. "This is almost jazz," he said, a bit of contempt in his voice.

"It won't sound like jazz," I said. "It's not really syncopated. But the back and forth between the instruments — the 'conversation' — is influenced by jazz."

"Do you want to try it now?"

"No, I don't want to disturb your rehearsal any more than I have. Do you think we can try it tomorrow?" I asked. "We have a run through on my piece scheduled."

Jonathan nodded, and Professor Carson patted his back. "I'll pass these out to the other sections, and we can go over the changes tomorrow. It will set us back a day, but I think it will be worth it. And we have time before the concert. This is part of the process, after all. And these musicians will need to be adaptable as they enter professional orchestras. Last minute changes are not unusual."

I shook hands with both of them, feeling better about the way the piece was taking shape. If this was going to be my last chance to perform for a while, I wanted it to be right.

Carlisle's thoughts seeped into my mind as we walked away from the conservatory, back through town. He was impressed at the way I interacted with the orchestra and the respect everyone showed me. He realized that I had a life he wasn't particularly aware of. He wasn't used to seeing me act so much like an adult.

The next weeks flew by. Carlisle and I had settled into a truce, which always made Esme happy. I was busy with school and rehearsal, and when the inevitable question came up from my peers or my professors about what I wanted to do next, I just said that I would likely take a break for a while and then see what came up. It was an answer that surprised my fellow musicians and displeased my professors, who wanted to write me letters of recommendation and make calls on my behalf. I resisted any temptation down that path. The graduation concert was one thing; performing every week in an orchestra was quite another. Far too likely to draw attention. Still, it was pleasant to think about.

December was full of plans and warmth and celebrations. The concert went off without a hitch, and I graduated with honors, though no placement, much to the chagrin of my mentors. Christmas came and went with the usual decorations and festivities, mostly arranged by Esme. New Year's Eve we headed to Times Square for the 20th annual ball drop at midnight. Despite the smell, it was exciting to be surrounded by throngs of celebrating humans — so much life and excitement. There were theaters and jazz clubs all around, dancing and music everywhere, and so many people that their thoughts meshed into an amorphous impression of happiness. I could get lost in the music and motion and life of it all.

Afterwards, the house felt very quiet. With no goals or celebrations to distract me, I grew restless. It didn't help that I had been written up in the paper. Thankfully, though, the associated picture encompassed the entire orchestra, and I was so small at the piano that my features weren't distinguishable. Even so, it put Carlisle on edge. By the end of the week, as I said goodbye to the last of my graduating cohorts moving to New York or Chicago to play with bands or orchestras, I was miserable, snapping at Carlisle for the least provocation. I was bored, resentful. I bought a new Victrola and put it in my room, so I could listen to whatever music I wanted as loud as I wanted. Carlisle was irritated, Esme was exasperated, and my mood just grew darker. I had no prospects. Nothing to distract me from the march of time, aimless, pointless thing that it was.

I was lying on the floor of my room listening to Duke Ellington albums when Carlisle knocked on my door, his thoughts excited and hidden behind a veil of medical textbook recitations.

"Come in," I muttered, not looking forward to the fight that seemed likely. I didn't want to come out of my room. I couldn't think of anything he could say that would tempt me.

He opened the door, and I was shocked to see he was dressed in a tuxedo.

I scanned Esme's thoughts and saw that she was wearing a beaded evening gown, applying makeup in her room. Were they going out?

"You need to get dressed, Edward."

"Dressed for what?" I asked, propping myself up on my elbows so I could look at him more easily.

"A Christmas present."

I scowled. "Christmas is over, old man," I said, leaning back down.

"Early birthday, then."

_Really early birthday_.

"What's this about, Carlisle?" I asked, too weary for any games.

He came into the room and sat down on the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking down at the floor.

"You're unhappy again."

I closed my eyes. I couldn't deny it and didn't want to admit it. Better to say nothing.

"I know it's not same as getting to play yourself, but I got us tickets for Vladimir Horowitz's debut at Carnegie Hall tonight."

I sat up and stared at him.

"He's been touring all over Europe the last year, but he's just arrived in America. This will be his first show on the continent, and he's one of the premier pianists of our time. You need to see him. So put on your tuxedo. I've already taken Esme hunting, and I assume you've fed recently."

I nodded, still in shock, torn between my gratitude for the fact he had arranged this, and my resentment that he thought I could be so easily bought off. This was great, but it wasn't going to solve anything. I still felt a rift growing between what he saw for my future and anything that brought me joy. Seeing a show, even a really amazing one, wasn't going to change the fact that my life had no purpose.

I nodded and stood. Carlisle faltered for a moment as if he wanted to say more. I scanned his mind, but he'd already hidden his thoughts again. He gave me a wistful smile and left.

My spirits did lift as we crossed the Harlem River on the Madison Avenue Bridge, and then cut over to 5th Avenue so we could drive along the eastern edge of Central Park as the sun set. By the time we reached Carnegie Hall, it was nearly dark and everywhere city lights blinked and throbbed.

It was so different from New Year's Eve. Those throngs had been reveling, raw and open. This was a refined crowd, dressed to the nines and blind to anyone on the street _not_ dressed in tails or beaded chiffon. There was arrogance and privilege in the thoughts around me. Still, it was hard not to get excited as we mounted the steps and entered the great hall.

Carlisle had managed to get us very good seats: tenth row orchestra, slightly to the left. I would have a perfect view of Horowitz's hands. Esme admired the architectural details and gilt, whispering softly with Carlisle, as I watched the stage, considering the acoustics of the room and the apparent size of the orchestra based on the arrangement of chairs and music stands. The piano itself was a magnificent Steinway, longer and seemingly newer than mine. I looked at the program to see what would be played just as the house lights dimmed and the orchestra took to the stage. There was the soft din of the tuning, led by the first violin, and then the arrival of the conductor, and then finally, finally, the man himself.

Horowitz seemed smaller than I'd imagined based on his pictures in the papers. That made it all the more wonderful when he sat at the piano and such _immense_ music filled the room. It was spectacular, and I sat back in my chair and let it wash over me, tuning out the buzzing minds around me to focus on this moment, this music in this perfect space. _This_ was how music was meant to sound. And though Horowitz's tempo on Tchaikovsky's _Piano Concerto No. 1 _was different from what I would have chosen, it was a fascinating interpretation. But the best — the very best — was when he announced a special guest. During the first intermission, the orchestra piano had been moved to the front, placed where the two pianists could see each other. As the orchestra returned to the stage Horowitz and _Rachmaninoff himself_ both entered and shook hands with the conductor, and then each other, as Rachmaninoff's _Third Concerto_ was announced. Horowitz played the solo piano, and Rachmaninoff played the orchestral piano. But they watched each other with obvious admiration and respect, as if they were playing a duet. It was thrilling to see these two masters at work. Rachmaninoff had long been a favorite of mine, and I could sense his influences reaching back in time: Chopin, Scriabin, Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, Rimsky-Korsakov and beyond. Horowitz was new to me, but obviously influenced both musically and personally by Rachmaninoff. This meeting on the stage — this first time that these two masters were playing together — this was musical history being made. And I was witness. It reminded me of Carlisle's memories of Mozart. Would I look as fondly on this day in a few hundred years? Would I be able to recapture this moment of sublime wonder and take comfort in it a century from now?

I took in every detail of their interaction: every moment of interplay, every note from one piano woven into the notes of the other. I'd been tempted to close my eyes and concentrate on the music alone, but the men playing it were too compelling. It was an exacting, difficult piece. Rachmaninoff had large hands and used the reach and strength of his fingers to create chords and motion in the notes that few could replicate. I had long fingers and inhuman speed and _still_ struggled with parts of it. Horowitz was doing a superb job, and it showed on Rachmaninoff's face after each difficult passage was executed with passion and flair.

In between those frenetic passages were periods of relative quiet. Space between the notes. An airiness in the piano that the orchestra could slip through, creating a smooth, soothing texture. The concerto was silk and thunder. Passion and ease. Opulent and grand without stooping to self-indulgence. Everything.

And throughout there were moments — nods across the keys to match tempo, smiles when the two parts came together _perfectly_ — moments that were clearly forging the beginning of a life-long friendship between the two men. The older mentor, the younger protégé — they would influence each other's lives for decades, reference each other the rest of their lives.

I glanced at Carlisle, remembering a time when our relationship had felt that way: a balanced meeting of two different but complementary equals. Horowitz was allowed to take Rachmaninoff's music and reinterpret it, infuse it with new life and style with the composer's blessing. But Carlisle's rules allowed no room for self-expression, no allowances for differences in attitude or taste. I tried — had been trying for months — to figure out how to stretch his rules and allow myself more freedom. There would be moments of success, but it always felt like it was grudgingly offered. And it was always temporary. An allowance. As if I should be grateful. As though I _needed_ permission

As the concerto came to a crescendo, I realized that the quiet, useful life Carlisle strove for didn't even appeal to me anymore. I needed passion, music, _life_. The idea of sitting in an isolated house in the middle of the forest and playing a single piano while drinking bland blood for decades seemed _hateful_. An utter, boring waste. Why would I bother with that when the city was _right here_, full of life and passion and no judgment? Most of our kind were solitary, after all.

A pang cut through me as I considered leaving Esme and Carlisle. I'd thought of it before, but it had always been an elusive fantasy. Nothing I'd actually consider. I hadn't even had any idea of where I'd go, except to maybe visit another friend: Eleazar... maybe Garrett, if I could figure out how to find him. But this would be so much easier. Being anonymous in the city would be simple. There would be music everywhere. The mental noise would be a problem, but I was getting better at tuning thoughts out, particularly those of strangers. Maybe I could just take a holiday. Surely Carlisle couldn't begrudge me that. He and Esme took holidays. I'd just graduated. Many of my peers were leaving home to travel abroad or head toward a job. A few weeks on my own would do me good. When we got home, I'd ask. Maybe next time Esme needed a painting delivered to New York, I would just stay for a while.

I focused on Horowitz's flying fingers. We'd reached my favorite part. The notes rose and fell with heavy, strong strokes. Powerful. Empowering. The discord and malaise I'd been feeling for months coalesced into something white-hot and glowing. I was done complaining. I was just going to _do_ something about it.

Beside me, Carlisle held Esme's hand, enjoying the music, but only appreciating a third of what was happening on the stage. He was more focused on the fact that bringing me here had been good for me, that Esme was doing so well, that he should take her to an opera soon. Esme just basked in the joy of being here with us, a bit agog at the grandeur of the space and the event.

The program ended, and the glittering audience slowly made its way to the lobby and street, ourselves included. All around me, people gushed about Horowitz's performance. Carlisle was speaking softly, comparing the orchestra to one he'd once seen in Vienna, when a discordant thought cut across my mind: fear, pain. Ugliness amongst the opulence.

I followed the thought, weaving between well-dressed couples and ducking into an alley as I heard Carlisle following, startled and worried. I made it to the end of the alley, rounded a corner by some waste bins, and saw them. He had her pinned against the dirty brick wall, one hand on her throat, the other under her skirt, pushing. He was whispering what he would do to her, what she was good for, but his _thoughts_ were even more repellant than his words. His plan — a basement room, days of torture, and then death — had been used before, many times. I saw their faces.

I had him off her in a flash, pinning him to the wall by his throat over my head. His feet jerked as his hands clawed at mine futilely.

"Edward, stop!"

I turned to look at Carlisle, the rage crescendoing within me.

"No. Take the girl, Carlisle. Be careful, she's been scratched and bruised. Esme should—"

"I'm fine," Esme said, coming forward and wrapping her arm around the girl's shoulder. She whispered something soothing and turned her away from us, leading her to the light and noise of the street. I looked back at the filth I was holding up against the wall.

"Edward, please. If you do this, you are letting the monster win."

"_He's_ the monster. Do you know what he was going to do to her? What he's done to other girls before her? He's worse than _Charles_. She would have ended up dead, but it would have been slow, and in the meantime... in the meantime..." I choked on the rest of my words.

His hand fell to my shoulder, gentle but firm, like his words. "I'm sure you're right. We'll take him to the police."

"With what evidence, Carlisle? He'll be set free. If I show them anything, it will draw attention to how I might have known. No," I said, looking back at the man, lowering him just enough that his feet touched the ground, and he could breathe. "This needs to be a secret. You are always telling me not to draw attention to myself. Playing music in secret isn't very fulfilling, but this... "

"I also tell you not to kill," he argued.

"True. But I'll be saving so many by taking this one. And..." I took a deep breath through my nose, allowing the scent of his blood to invade me. The meaning was not lost on Carlisle.

"Edward, please. You will lose yourself. You will lose everything that makes you the passionate young man I know and love. Think of Garrett. Remember how he lost his sense of himself. He has become a warrior who doesn't know his enemy, who just _wanders_ with no purpose. A good man, but an aimless one—"

"I can _never_ forget my enemies, Carlisle. Their acts dance across my eyelids. I see it all. And this city hides more violence than anywhere else I've ever been. But I can stop some of it." I regarded Carlisle as he stood by my side as he always had. He looked different. Like a stranger or a doppelgänger of someone I knew. Not my closest friend.

"All these years. I've fought what I am — what you made me. All these years, I've lived with terrible visions and crushing thirst, and I don't know _why_ anymore. Not when it can serve a purpose," I said, looking back at the man in my grip. He was finally realizing that his death was before him. I wouldn't make him suffer as much as he had made _his_ victims, but I enjoyed seeing his mortality in his eyes. Perhaps he would learn a touch of compassion for his victims before I drained him.

"Edward..." Carlisle's voice cracked, and I met his gaze. "Please, don't. It is not worth the black mark on your soul—"

"I have no soul!" I yelled, glaring.

"Psyche, then," he said, conceding the old fight. "It's not worth giving up on all the light in your life, the light in yourself. You are capable of so much beauty. Why would you focus on the darkness in the world? It will eat at you, Edward. It will consume you until you no longer recognize yourself. Please come home with me."

And I saw his reasoning, and I saw his need for me, but I could no longer mirror it. He thought I would change, not be able to recognize myself. But what he really feared was that _he_ wouldn't recognize me. Not that I would lose myself, but that he would lose me. And I was tired of living my life just to please him. He had his happiness in Esme now. He didn't need me. And I needed more than he could offer.

His thoughts were a swirling mass of fear and regret, moments from our time together and his time alone before he found me. Black loneliness and numb drudgery. He feared that for me. But I felt completely alive and powerful and—

_Just a boy..._ His thought cut through mine, and I hissed.

"I'm 26, old man. It's high time I left the nest, stifling as it's become. You have a patient to attend," I said, nodding back to the main street as I continued to eye my prey. "And I have some justice to dine on."

"Edward—"

"Go, now, Carlisle. Don't look for me."

I leapt up onto the fire escape, carrying my quarry to the roof.

_Edward! No!_

The pain in his thought broke the rhythm of my steps for a fraction of a moment, but it was too late. My vision was bathed in red. The thoughts of the man in my grasp had turned to death, and I witnessed a parade of victims. His fear was making his heart thrum deliciously: I could almost _taste _his blood already. I had suffered my thirst for so long, the idea of actually quenching it, and doing a good deed as well, was making me giddy.

Images superimposed on my mind, making a surreal bid for attention: the victims in his thoughts, his view of my face as we climbed, my form through Carlisle's mind growing fainter as I rose, stretching our connection until it dulled as I disappeared into the beckoning night, his vision fading to black.

My vision flared red, full of the frightened, pleading eyes of a man who would soon be unable to cause harm again. I bared my teeth. His scream never left his throat.

* * *

_AN: I'm cheating. The date of Horowitz's debut is accurate, but I'm actually combining several historic events into a single one. It was approximately three weeks later that Horowitz played Rach 3, and Rachmaninoff himself was in the audience. They played it together several days before that, privately. But since I couldn't figure out how to get Edward to a private concert, and I said in Bridge that Edward had seen Rachmaninoff play at Horowitz's debut (based on obviously incomplete research 2.5 years ago), I just smooshed it all together. Poetic license. I'm sure no one would have noticed, but the guilt would have eaten me up inside if I hadn't confessed my historic inaccuracies. There are others, I'm sure, but they are errors. This was deliberate, so I couldn't keep it from you._

_Whew. I feel better now. _

_So, Edward's tired of being a good boy. You know all that fluff the last few chapters just isn't my style. I predict seriously bad fallout and seriously good music in the next chapter (and just to prepare you, we are getting very close to the end). And speaking of good music, Rach 3 has been added to the playlist. Just follow the link on my profile to hear it (thanks Nixhaw!) Thank you for reading._


	34. Chapter 34

_AN: There is a LOT of music this chapter. You can listen as you read (Prelude Playlist accessed from my profile...thanks nixhaw!). Many, many, MANY thanks to juji_loo, who is very thorough and still teaching me important things about commas. _

_I know you waited a long time for this, but at least it's long._

_From Chapter 33_

_"Go, now, Carlisle. Don't look for me."_

* * *

**Chapter 34**

**March 1928**

**CPOV**

The lights were on in the house as I emerged from the dark forest, and a white flag of smoke rose from the chimney as if signaling surrender. That fit the dichotomy of my soul perfectly. Relief that there was still some of the light and warmth of a refuge, tinged with the hollowness of resignation. Esme kept it bright and welcoming, but without Edward, the house was not home. It was not whole, and neither was my heart.

I sighed and closed the last distance to the front door. Esme was there, but her expression showed no hope. She could tell from the slowness of my solitary strides that I'd been unsuccessful. Again. She took me into a silent embrace, and I allowed myself the weakness of leaning into it. I knew she was in pain, too. I hated that I had brought it upon her, almost as much as I hated the pain I'd caused myself. For surely this was my fault. I couldn't think of what I could have done differently, but I'd driven him away. And now the emptiness and the encroaching memories to my lonely past were almost more than I could bear. I shuddered as Esme's arms held me, strong and warm. She led me inside.

"No sign of him?"

I took off my hat and coat and handed them to her. I could hardly make sense of what I'd found.

"That would have been easier to understand. I actually did find his scent, but it's not concentrated anywhere: Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn. I'd find a whiff on a roof or a street lamppost. But they were always old. Nothing was fresh, and nothing created a trail. The traces I did find were probably weeks apart from each other. It's as if he's been planting them for me to find just to confuse me."

Bitterness was heavy in my voice, and she took my hand, looking at our entwined fingers as she thought.

"So you think he's still in New York City?"

I rubbed my brow with my free hand. "He could be. It's still my best guess. It would be an easy place to hide, so long as he didn't go out during the day." I hated to think of how he must be living now: alone, hiding, unable to show his eyes. "The most recent sign I found was less than a week old, but it was completely isolated." I laughed ruefully. "You know, for all his complaining that he's a lousy tracker, he's quite adept at _evading_ tracking. He might even be leaving me false trails."

"Hmmm."

I looked up at her face, trying to understand her expression. She smiled at my concern and leaned forward to give me a gentle kiss.

"Mail came for you while you were gone. From Chicago."

"From whom?" I asked, nervousness settling in my stomach. Would Edward write me a letter?

She handed me an envelope. The return address was from Mr. Jackson, my accountant, and Edward's. I tore it open, fearing that Edward, now being of age, had removed me from his accounts. But, no. It was a statement of activity on Edward's accounts. One large withdrawal in Chicago — in person. So, he'd actually met with Mr. Jackson. He could have removed me from his accounts and had chosen not to. There was another large sum withdrawn weeks later in Boston. The withdrawals were too infrequent to give me a way to effectively trace his movements, and they weren't really enough to live on in the cities he seemed to be frequenting. But perhaps his lifestyle no longer required much money. No groceries need be bought to feign being human if he were no longer interacting with humans except… well, in any normal manner.

What did it mean? Why would he show me this?

"He's toying with me. Showing me he can hide right in front of me," I said bitterly.

"Carlisle Cullen," she chastised gently, running her fingers through my hair in a way that always calmed me. I leaned into her hand, thankful for the comfort and gentle distraction. "That's not a very charitable way to view it. I think it's just as likely that he's trying to give you some peace."

I looked at her skeptically.

"He knows you, Carlisle. He knows how hard this must be for you. He could disappear completely; he could be across the country by now. If he's letting you know that he's still near and he's able to draw funds from his accounts, don't you think it might be to reassure you that he's okay? I agree, he doesn't want to be found," she said before I could answer, "but he's giving you some tie to his life. He's not just vanishing and making you wonder if he's still alive."

Her fingers played with the hair at my temple as she thought for a moment. "If I could have safely done the same for Rachel, I would have in a heartbeat. I had to cut her off completely for her own safety, as well as for mine. And it was painful for both of us. Edward told me how relieved she was when he found her. Even though I still couldn't be in her life, she was just grateful to know I was okay. And when he came home and told me he'd seen her, I was relieved to know she was, too."

I let out the breath I'd been holding. It _felt_ like cruelty, the way he was flitting around just out of my grasp. But perhaps Esme was right. Perhaps Edward's behavior could be explained by his concern for my mental state, and it only felt unkind due to the difference in our desires.

I just wanted him home. And he wanted... well, other things, obviously.

Still, it was much nicer than believing he was mocking me.

Esme ran her fingers through my hair again, bringing me back to the present.

"I just want him home," I repeated, sighing.

"I know," she whispered. "I do, too. But we can't make him come home. We can only make him aware that he has a home to come to — when he's ready."

I shook my head. "This is my fault, Esme. I drove him away. And now he won't even see me so I can tell him I know... I'm aware of my errors."

"You didn't drive him away, Carlisle. He just—"

"I did, Esme. I truly did." I scrubbed my face with my hands, thinking back to the conversation I'd had with a stranger — Mr. Banks — during Edward's first year with me. "'The mistakes of action, if well meant, are more easily forgiven than the mistakes of inaction.' I neglected his needs, Esme. Made him feel they were secondary to ours. And mistakes of neglect are harder to overcome. And now _I _suffer for my neglect because I need _him_. I just…"

My eyes closed. How could I explain to her the loss I felt? My brother, my friend, my first confidant, my teacher, and — despite the fact he would hate the label – my son. Until now, he truly had been the son of my heart... adopting so many of my values, sharing my life, helping me grow from a solitary figure to someone who had to think of others. Someone with a family. I'd failed him, failed to adjust my views for him, and he was gone. And despite Esme's warmth and love, the world felt colder and less vibrant.

I hated his absence. I _hated_ it. Esme was careful to keep his music room clean and tidy and ready for his return, but dust gathered on the strings of his piano where she did not think to clean. Those strings had never been still enough to collect dust, and I found in that thin, grey layer my condemnation.

Esme stroked my hair. Her breath brushed against my cheek.

"He'll come home."

"When?" I whispered.

"I don't know. But he will. And in the meantime, you can send him a letter via Mr. Jackson."

I stilled and opened my eyes, kissing her cheek. "That's a good idea," I whispered.

"Tomorrow," she said, threading her fingers through mine and kissing me. "Write him tomorrow." She pulled me toward the stairs, kissing me again.

Esme had many good ideas.

**April 1928**

**EPOV**

I was flying.

Literally, over rooftops. Figuratively, my mind was abuzz with this blood. God, _this blood!_ It sung through my veins and through my mind as my feet barely felt the brick and steel beneath them. This blood was freedom, not merely quenching my throat, but revitalizing — a surge of ecstasy and energy and bliss. That pain — that constant pain in my throat that had weighed on my consciousness like lead, an endless burden — that pain was gone. And its absence felt like _wings_. Everything was lighter, more vibrant. My mind was clear, and the world was a riot of color blooming where there had just been muted colors and grey responsibility. I would never drink anything else.

Knowing that I was saving innocent lives each time I killed one of these predatory, manipulative men made it even better. The rush was not just physical; it was emotional and mental as well. It wasn't so different from what I heard in the minds of the addicts on the street corners. There was the anticipation… the jingling of my nerves as I scouted for a new victim, the skill required to isolate him in this busy, hectic, nosy city. And then, the pleasure of teaching him the meaning of retribution. The look in his eyes when he realized that the tables had turned, and he wasn't the victor anymore — he was the victim. The power I felt as he finally stopped denying his guilt, begged for mercy, and found none. The ebb as his evil life slipped from him as his blood sustained _my_ life. And, finally, the disposal of the garbage he'd been all along. Knowing the City was free of him, I was free to relish the satisfaction of a soothed throat and a clear conscience.

I landed on the roof three blocks from my destination, giddy from my hunt and the singing blood. And if that wasn't enough to make me love this city and my new life, there was the music. It was _everywhere_. Varied and delicious and everything I could want: Horowitz to Handy, Chopin to Calloway, Ernst to Ellington.

I turned to face the sunset, admiring the rooftop view of my city: my playground, my hunting ground. The giver of life in the form of music and blood and righteousness. In another hour, the streets would be teeming with activity, pulsing with energy and throbbing with rhythm. And as always, I would have my hand on its pulse, and when I needed it, sink my teeth into the crimson force and _revel_.

But not tonight. Tonight my thirst for blood was sated, and my thirst for music drove me forward. Toward home. I took my cane from its hiding place and dropped into the alley, moving stealthily to the main street.

In the beginning, I'd actually bought tickets. I watched Ravel last month from a balcony seat, mesmerized by the relentless repetition of _La Valse_ and the strangely obsessed mind of its composer. I had sat among the throngs of glittering humans, wearing my tuxedo and my disguise — the dark glasses and cane that marked me as a blind man and hid the eyes of a predator — and I watched the orchestra as anyone else might.

But my thirst for music was unending, and my bank account was not.

I'd found a new solution. I'd made Carnegie Hall my home.

I entered the foot traffic on the sidewalk, earning pitying glances as I navigated with my cane. It was easy this time of day when the office workers had left for their homes, and the theater-goers had not yet arrived. I made my way north five blocks and then turned east, approaching the theater from behind. Darkness fell quickly, and as I ducked into another alley, away from the illuminating street lamps and pedestrians, darkness shrouded my way in: a small third story window with a broken lock, never fixed because it was assumed that the lack of a fire escape barred entry through the small, high window.

It may not have been as cozy as the home I had shared with Carlisle and Esme, but my new home had many advantages. It was centrally located. The rent was ideal. The amenities for one who could scale walls and hide effectively were spectacular.

From the rafters that supported the stage lights in the right wings, I had a perfect view of the performing musicians, especially if there were a pianist whose fingers I wished to watch. And the parade of performers was diverse and eminently talented. I was never bored. It was so much better than having a gramophone.

The basements held dark, unused corners perfect for hiding my few belongings — clothes and programs mostly. The basement also housed my sanity: a rehearsal piano, not as grand as the one they brought on stage, but a Steinway, nonetheless.

Its discovery clinched my decision on my new lodgings. Having a base of operations was important, but the hotels and warehouses I'd tried to use in the beginning were less than ideal. Too many people. Too many thoughts. Not enough beauty.

Carnegie Hall was full of beauty, and when it was empty, I felt relief. It was big enough to shelter me somewhat from the throngs outside. Their thoughts were muted by the thick walls and space. Really, it had everything I needed but a bathtub. Occasional rentals of motel rooms solved the problem of cleaning myself, and trips to the laundry took care of my suits. The money needed for that could be gleaned from the pockets of my victims, who had rarely earned it in the first place. I had to dip into savings only rarely.

I went to the basement to change into clothes that didn't smell of the hunt and then climbed into the rafters, nearly vibrating with anticipation. W.C. Handy's band was let onstage to run a sound check, the players excited and boisterous at being on the grand stage for the first time. Jazz had come to Carnegie Hall, and no one would ever be the same. I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the cornet drift through my mind.

**July 1928**

**CPOV**

It was summer, and so I worked the night shift. It meant, among other things, that Esme and I saw less of each other. By the time I got home, sunlight was streaming into the attic, and she was painting. I washed and then read or wrote letters, and by the time the light was fading and she came down from the attic, it was time for me to leave again for the hospital.

And though it troubled me, I was secretly relieved. She was still so optimistic, so sure this was a phase that Edward was going through, and he'd soon be bounding up the doorsteps, asking for forgiveness. Asking to come home.

She thought about it constantly. Her mood was practically serene with the knowledge that this would all be over soon. As if Edward were on holiday.

My fears ran much deeper, and I hated hiding them from her.

When she was upstairs painting, it felt like companionable silence. We were happy for each other's presence, even if we weren't taking full advantage of it. But when Esme had meetings in town, I found myself gravitating toward the gramophone, pulling out the old Victor records and wallowing in the stillness and Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_. Beethoven always affected me the most, but there was actually not a single artist I could listen to without conjuring a memory of Edward, bitter and sweet as they were.

I would sit for hours, immune to the cheerful sunlight and birdsong coming in through the window, drowning it out with dark curtains and darker music.

**August 1928**

**EPOV**

I'd been playing for hours — a mix of classical and jazz — when the thoughts finally intruded into my focused mind.

…_the Phantom again…_

I quickly closed the piano guard, grabbed the sheet music, and ran to the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. I quietly clambered over containers — crates storing old velvet curtains and stage lights and music stands — and moved into the narrow space I'd created between them and the wall. It was just large enough for a trunk of my own and space to hang a few suits. I got settled and held my breath just as the door opened, and a pair of night watchmen entered bearing a dim flashlight.

"I told you there was nothing down here," one of them whispered.

"I heard music, just like last week."

"You heard a bottle of scotch is what you heard…"

"Dammit, Harold, I mean it. This old place has a ghost, just like that theater in France..."

"You do realize that book is fiction, right? There's no such thing as ghosts or phantoms."

"Well, then who's playing this piano every night? I swears I can hear it as I enter the building, all distant and ghost-like, but it stops when I get too close. He's trying to lure a lady, I bet."

If being quiet weren't so critical, I would have laughed out loud.

"Well, nobody's playing it now, and we're supposed to be checking the locks upstairs. Your phantom must have gone uptown for the evening. Let's get going."

The other one looked around the room, his eyes sliding right past my hiding place. Finally, he nodded, and the two of them left, neither noticing the dim glow of the still-warm incandescent filament in the overhead light I'd been using, nor the pencil I'd left on the piano.

I listened to their footsteps retreat down the hall and leaned back against the wall, laughing. Well, I was a phantom now on top of everything else? I put away my things in a crate I'd emptied, placing the sheet music in a small box and the pencil in with my compositions. I'd been so prolific the last few months. Inspiration was everywhere. But perhaps it was time I found a few other pianos to play around town. I didn't want to lose the Hall as a home base just because some humans had become suspicious. Of course, ghost stories would help keep _some_ people away. But one of these two had been curious — and he was a good man — so any problems he caused couldn't be solved by hunting him.

I scanned the room, making sure everything was hidden, and then donned my coat and dark glasses. If I couldn't play here, going uptown sounded like a marvelous idea. The piano at Small's was no Steinway, but it was solid and in tune. And the club was usually full of music and musicians. There was always something worth listening to. I said goodnight to the Steinway, wondering briefly if _my _Steinway was feeling neglected, and made my way out of the building and into the dark, heading north toward the nightlife of Harlem.

**December 1928**

**CPOV**

The house had been dark for hours. Esme wasn't home to greet me when I'd returned early from my shift, but that was not terribly unusual. There were tracks going up and down the drive, but new snow was obscuring them. It appeared that there had been multiple trips. I knew she'd planned to go to town today — there was a local Christmas benefit for the Houses of Hospitality, and Esme had donated several paintings. She had sent several more to Rachel to keep or sell as she saw fit. They had started a correspondence soon after Edward left. With Charles dead and her father too old to chase after her, Esme didn't fear for Rachel's safety, nor did she fear that someone unpleasant would show up on our doorstep. And she'd needed a friend who could help buoy her spirits, and that definitely wasn't me.

Rachel had all sorts of excellent advice regarding young men growing up and the story of the prodigal son. Rachel had met Edward, was convinced of how much he loved Esme. Rachel was sure he would return in his time.

Esme found comfort in these words, and I was happy for her. I was pleased she had a best friend in which she could confide her fears and worries, a friend who was outside those concerns and could offer comfort.

Because I could do neither. I knew too well how long loneliness could grip a life. Knew too well how much time could pass between visits among vampires who considered each other friends, but did not live or travel together. We were long-lived creatures with little sense of urgency when it came to visiting. For all I knew, it would take Edward a decade just to notice our absence.

And there was no such comfort for me either. No friend outside this situation in whom I could confess my emotions and insecurities, who could offer assurance of a quick resolution. Eleazar's response when I wrote him was to invite Esme and me to Alaska. He knew we'd need comfort. He could offer no false promises about Edward's return. We both knew how tempting he would find his freedom and the pleasure of human blood.

The letter, while comforting in its way, had left me feeling desolate. I couldn't leave for Alaska, as nice as it would be to distract myself with friendship and company. Edward was here… somewhere. Close, if out of reach. Leaving would feel like abandoning him, despite the fact he departed first. And Edward was still my best friend, and though it seemed he had little use for me at the moment, I needed to do what I could to be available to him. As painful as it was believing he was 100 miles away and not speaking to me, it would be far worse to have him thousands of miles away.

Of course, he could be thousands of miles away, but his attachment to the City had been clear. And on the rare occasions he did withdraw cash from his accounts, it was from within the confines of New York.

No. I couldn't leave.

I got up and roamed the quiet, dark house, looking for clues for where Esme had gone, and pushing down the fears that she, too, had abandoned me. More and more, glimpses of Solitude caught the corner of my eye, and panic bubbled in my stomach. But surely, _surely_ Esme wouldn't leave me, too.

I honestly didn't know if I could survive on my own again. The strength that had seen me through the first centuries of my life seemed but a dream.

I wandered into my study. The pictures adorning the wall had grown in number since I first told my history to Edward a mere decade ago. The beginning of my life was depicted with a single image representing decades or even a century, but the last decade had numerous pictures. My finger traced the photo of Edward and me in Chicago, both in our dapper suits. My first photograph. "Welcome to the twentieth century, old man," he'd said, and it still made me laugh. I felt the smooth frame, the dark and light squares representing the chessboard we'd played on as we became acquainted and then became friends. A nearly silent sob escaped my lips as I moved on to the next photo. Edward's graduation from high school, taken without his knowledge at the ceremony, and given to us as a gift from one of the other doctors, who also had a graduating senior. Next to that was my wedding photo: Esme and me in the ballroom where Edward had played for us while we danced. If she were gone too, I just didn't know if I could… how was I expected to…

"Carlisle?"

I looked up and saw her in the doorway, relief making my knees weak. I held out one hand to her. In a moment, she was in my arms, and half my heart was back, solid in my chest again.

"What are you doing in the dark, Carlisle?" came her whisper, and I buried my nose in her hair and breathed deeply.

"Thinking unpleasant thoughts," I answered, and then straightened myself up and willed my voice to be even. I had to be strong for Esme. "What kept you from home so long? More planning for the Christmas benefit?"

She stiffened, and I could almost feel the guilt spilling off her. "Esme?"

"I went to the city. I thought… maybe he would let me find him. Maybe, because it's nearly Christmas, and he knows what it means to me…"

I was frozen, torn between the hope that she'd seen him and the jealousy I would feel if Edward chose to reveal himself to Esme instead of me.

"Did you find him?" I asked, unsure of which answer would hurt less.

"No," she whispered, burying her face in my chest. I chastised myself for my selfish impulses. Esme was hurting as much as I was. She and Edward had a special relationship, too. I tightened my arms around her.

"I found his scent once. In Harlem."

"Harlem? Well, I guess that makes sense if he's focused on music. Perhaps I should start focusing my searches there."

"I broadcast thoughts everywhere I went, asking him to come home for Christmas…"

"Oh, Esme…" I tightened my arms again.

"Rachel thinks maybe Edward is afraid it will be harder on us if he visits… like he's teasing us."

"Maybe," I agreed, wondering if I could stop from pleading with him to stay if I saw him again. Especially here, in this house. Perhaps Edward was right to stay away.

I kissed her head and cleared my throat, rethinking my position on my friend's offer. "Eleazar has invited us to Alaska. And I was told that if I work the week between Christmas and New Years, I could take off two weeks in January. Maybe… maybe we should go away, just for a while.

She was still for several moments as I held my breath. "It would be nice to see Carmen," she finally said. "As long as we're here at Christmas in case he changes his mind… I think going away for the anniversary might be a good idea."

My thoughts exactly.

**May 1929**

**EPOV**

Daytime in the spring was boring.

I couldn't hunt. I couldn't play the piano at the Hall — too many people coming and going. The clubs were closed. The library was open, but an apparently blind man shouldn't be seen reading. Or going to museums and looking at art. Or anything else indoors that was interesting.

I'd tried going to baseball games. It was reasonably easy to get a seat that was in the shade, and bringing a radio helps a little with explaining why a blind man is at a game (enjoying the atmosphere, the excitement of the fans, the smell of the grass). But I stopped. The risk was too high on sunny days, and it was still odd for a blind man to be at a game. And really, it made me feel lonely.

Baseball was something I'd done with Carlisle. It felt wrong to attend a series without him. Which was stupid because I'd loved the game even before I met him. But the human memories were faded almost to nothing, whereas the memories of games _with_ him — teaching him to keep score, rooting for the Cubs — those memories were perfectly preserved.

The one upside of the few games I attended was that I now knew the Giants' players, so the games were more fun to listen to on the radio.

The truth was this: Manhattan was a terrible place to be a vampire during the day, especially in the spring and summer. Too sunny. Too crowded. If I could have moved freely, there would have been plenty to occupy me, but my red eyes and the disguise they necessitated made that impossible. I ended up wandering along the shady side of the street, just listening to thoughts. And somehow I'd ended up at Small's Paradise in the middle of the afternoon. The door was open, so I went in.

"I'm sorry. We're closed."

I smiled and turned in the direction of the voice, tapping my cane in front of me.

"I know. The sidewalks are just a bit crowded at the moment, and I thought if there was a rehearsal or something perhaps I could sit in the back until things got a bit quieter out there. Or, if your setting up tables for tonight, I could play piano for you. Just for a lark."

His mind wavered between being curious and suspicious. "I couldn't pay you."

"I need no payment, just a place out of the heat and crowd for an hour."

"You've been here before, haven't you? For the show, I mean."

I tilted my head, listening to his thoughts. There were musicians downstairs. "I come to your show fairly regularly."

"Do you play jazz?"

"Some," I answered.

"Come with me. Oh, there are stairs. Will that be —?"

"I'll manage," I said.

As we entered the large, basement ballroom, I noticed two people near the stage. It appeared to be an audition.

"Hey, Fess! I got a player for you. Mr. —"

"M-Stone," I supplied, and he grinned, catching the use of a false name.

"Mr. Stone says he plays jazz." Immediately, two sets of eyes turned toward us.

"Do you know the 'Paradise Wobble'?"

I smiled. "What key would you like it in?"

The lady's audition did not go well, but I was invited to play for Charlie Johnson again, standing in for him at the piano as he rehearsed the rest of the orchestra.

I was even given a nickname.

Suddenly, daytime was wasn't so boring anymore.

**September 1929**

**CPOV**

It had happened slowly.

In the beginning, Esme was optimistic and hopeful. She tried to distract me from the pain of Edward's absence. She was convinced it wouldn't last long.

But a year and a half had passed, and she spoke of it less now.

We still walked through the forest holding hands. We still made love and watched the stars from the roof. But there was a sense now that we were both holding our breaths. Holding a thought, a memory, a hope. We weren't moving forward.

When she bought paints, the gold and copper were missing, and all the colors were dark.

**November 1929**

**EPOV**

I'd spend the entire night mastering Thomas 'Fats' Waller's 'Handful of Keys'.

There was a reason he was called 'the Black Horowitz.' The fingering was as complicated as anything by Chopin or Rachmaninoff, with syncopation and speed complicating things further. Since I'd seen Waller's Carnegie Hall debut last year, I'd been making my way through all of his sheet music. This one and 'Honeysuckle Rose' were my favorites. 'Handful of Keys' was a joy and a challenge, and something that didn't require a full orchestra. Unlike Gershwin's _American in Paris_, which had also debuted at Carnegie Hall last year. That was wonderful, but too _big_ for one piano in a small basement room.

I closed the key guard and folded my sheet music into my vest pocket. My collection was growing, and my possessions had outgrown the small corner of this rehearsal space I'd called home for nearly two years. I exited the basement rehearsal space and moved quietly down the hall to the stairs that led backstage. When I'd decided I had to leave the basement, I searched the Hall extensively and found an attic space that actually didn't have any entry from any main corridors or stairwells. It could only be accessed from the rafters above the stage itself through a gap in the lath and plaster. It was nearly perfect. The ceiling was a bit low, and it was noisy in the rain. And I missed having a piano right in my room. But I'd brought in a chair and small table that the props folks in a nearby theater were planning to throw away, and I'd fashioned some bookcases out of boards and bricks. It actually felt more like a home, despite the lack of a piano. And I got to hear everything that was played in the Hall from the comfort of a soft chair.

When I reached the attic, I put the sheet music in the appropriate box on my shelf and changed my suit. I headed outside around ten in the morning when the theater was opening for rehearsals. Sometimes I stayed and listened, but today I felt restless. I walked through Central Park in the mist, absently listening to the minds around me for any potential prey. But the people strolling the park during daylight hours were generally, well, _people_. Not prey.

I turned east and walked halfway through Queens before turning around. It was nice to be out during the day, something I missed in the clear weather of summer and fall. It was getting late, though. Night would be falling soon, and though the clubs didn't start hopping until after midnight, it was time to head back to Manhattan.

It was dark by the time I reached Central Park again, and familiar thoughts entered the edge of my awareness. I crossed the street and ducked into an alley, climbing quickly to the roof. I ran, leaping several gaps between buildings before getting close enough to see him.

Carlisle was walking slowly up 125th Street, shoulders hunched, looking for me. Again. His thoughts were nearly hopeless, and a pang of guilt stabbed through me. He was... well, he'd never seemed this bad before. I hadn't heard thoughts this troubled since my first year with him. Where was all his confidence? Where was his drive? Where was _Esme_? I stood frozen on the roof as I watched Carlisle disappear around the corner and then dashed across several more roofs to catch sight of him again, surprised he hadn't heard me. He was looking for me, and I was right here.

But I was downwind, and after all this time, he still forgot to look up sometimes.

He didn't look for me as often as he used to. I hadn't noticed his scent for months and honestly thought he might have given up or moved on. It would be nearly time for that. Nearly time to leave Connecticut and reinvent himself somewhere else.

Part of me actually wondered how hard he was trying. He hunted me as though all he knew was my scent. How ironic would he find it, I wondered, that I essentially lived in the last place we'd spent time together? Although the fact that he was looking in Harlem indicated he might be using his mind and not just his nose at this point.

He was hurting, as was Esme, and I didn't enjoy that. But as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, I knew he could not accept me as I was — with eyes of monstrous red. Aro and Eleazar and even Garrett might be called 'friend' in such a state, but I would be held to a higher standard.

I sunk down as I watched him, sitting on my heels, feeling oddly weak. It had been so long since I'd spoken with him, to anyone who knew me, really, and I was tempted — so tempted — to let him find me. Not that I wanted to go back to how things were. I wanted to show him that this life was also good, that the choice I made was reasonable. That I hadn't changed where it mattered. That we could still be friends.

He was headed north. He disappeared from my view again, and this time I let him go. I was heading north tonight, too, but had a different destination. As fate would have it, Carlisle and I were both hunting tonight.

I noticed Harvey Floyd two weeks earlier, but I hadn't really focused on him as being any more evil than anyone else until the showgirl had disappeared the night after his gig.

He was one of those set musicians that played everywhere: small orchestras, jazz clubs, strip clubs. He was in and out of sessions from Harlem to the Bronx to Queens, and most in places less savory than the ones I frequented. But she had disappeared and it was all anyone could think about. And Harvey was missing, too — for four days.

But when he came back, I knew.

He was playing tonight at a dive on the Upper East Side. And it had been three weeks since I'd fed.

I let myself into a table in the back and ordered a scotch. The music was mediocre and clearly not the reason most of the patrons were here. Harvey was in the back on coronet, his eyes on one of the scantily clad waitresses. His mind was racing through scenarios, but it was all sexual until another face flashed through his mind, and then another, and then the showgirl I knew of — who'd been so traumatized she'd left the city for home. He was a predator, and he'd found his next mark.

And I'd found mine.

The set was over at 3:30, and the club closed at 4:00. I waited in the shadows by the stage door, listening to him try to convince her to go home with him. He was getting more and more physical with her until I decided I couldn't wait for him to come out on his own.

"You lost, buddy?" he asked as I entered his room.

"No, I just couldn't help but notice the lady saying 'no', and you ignoring her. I'd advise against that."

He snorted, holding her wrist tight. She was sizing me up, trying to decide if there was more to me than met the eye, or if I was just a temporary distraction she might use to escape.

"She didn't mean _no-_no. Did you, hun? We was just gettin' ready to leave."

"Oh, I know. And I agree that's advisable. Marie, why don't you go and get your coat and leave now," I said walking forward and taking Harvey's wrist in a way that forced his hand open. "Harvey and I need to have a little chat about manners, and you probably don't want to be here for it."

"Thank you." She was out the door before he could protest.

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Your conscience," I said, forcing him into the dark alley. It was so predictable. They always asked the same questions. It became almost a game, to see what cheesy, short answer I could give that would convey the very serious nature of their circumstances. Typically, it took a while for them to stop being belligerent and start understanding that they were about to die for their sins. Harvey continued babbling about his rights, and how I'd mistaken him for someone else, and how those girls had asked for it as I hauled him to the roof. I had two hours before sunrise and would need to dispose of the body. I wanted to be cleaned up and back hiding in Manhattan before that happened. There wasn't time for much chitchat.

I slammed him into the wall hard enough to steal his breath.

"My turn to talk." I pulled their names from his thoughts. Once you mention a victim, it's amazing how the always catalog all the rest. The more names I gave him, the more easily the next one flowed from his mind. And when I was done, when he had the names of all of his victims laid at his feet, he knew it was over. I sunk my teeth in and drank.

**December 1929**

**CPOV**

Esme ran up the drive and burst through the door, showing more excitement than I'd seen in her in a year.

"Esme, sweetheart, what's going on?"

She rushed into my arms and then kissed me soundly.

"They're all gone!" she said excitedly.

"What are gone?"

"The paintings I donated to the Hospitality House benefit this year. Someone bought all four — the entire "Four Seasons" series. The benefit organizers want me to find more paintings for the auction. The money they raised…it's going to help so many people."

"That's wonderful, Esme!" I squeezed her tightly and then pulled back to look into her face. Her smile was so rare these days I had to cherish it. "Do you know anything about the collector?"

She shook her head. "No, just that it's someone in New York City using an anonymous account."

My brow furrowed. "Is that common?"

"Not really, but it's not unheard of either. Sometimes if a buyer is famous, or working for a famous museum, they prefer to keep purchases private."

"Well, we should celebrate! Let me take you out somewhere."

"To New York?" she asked, her smile falling a bit.

"If you like—"

"Carlisle, I don't think I can."

"We won't go to hear music. Let's… go to a museum. Better yet, let's go to Boston, to the Museum of Fine Arts. There's actually a whole street full of museums there."

Christmas was coming, and I felt it would be easier on both of us to not be here, but had been afraid to say anything. Maybe this would work. Maybe if we were leaving to celebrate—

"No, Carlisle. I don't want to go away. I just… I need to find some more paintings for the benefit. I need to find something else to give away."

I knew defeat when I heard it. "Okay. We'll celebrate here. Let me help you look through the canvasses."

"I can do it," she said, starting to pull out of my arms.

"Please," I asked, tightening my grip. "Please, let me help."

We stood there in an embrace that had lost much of its warmth while I awaited her decision.

"Okay." She backed away and took my hand, leading me up to the attic. It had been months since I'd felt welcome enough to visit her up there.

**January 1930**

**EPOV**

I left a trail he couldn't miss. Not only would he see it — or smell it, assuming he came — but it was so blatant he would know I _meant_ for him to see it. He would know it was an invitation.

It had been two years to the day, so I started where it had all began: the alley by Carnegie Hall. But I didn't stay in that respectable part of town. I headed east —into Queens — to a little dive called the Grey Dawn where one of my favorite new jazz singers had started being featured.

I arrived in my dapper suit, with my cane and black glasses, and my trench coat buttoned against the chill on the night.

"Whitey!"

"Vanessa," I answered, turning toward her voice with a smile. She was a single mother, clean. Her boyfriend was a bum, but not a mean one.

"Your usual table?"

"Please." She led the way with my gloved hand on her elbow.

"Are you playing tonight?"

"I hadn't planned on it," I said, chuckling. "But then, I never do."

"No, you prefer to sweep in and save them when they need rescuing," she teased. It made me happy and just a bit melancholy as I remembered Esme's teasing.

"That's true, I suppose. I can help the first set if they need me, but I'm expecting a guest later," I said, sitting at my table in the dark corner of the club.

"Oh, is this guest... I mean, you're aware this is a colored club, right? We make an exception for you, but if your friend is white, maybe you should take him to a mixed club."

"He's as pale as I am, but he's family. You're not going to kick us out, are you? We'll just sit quietly in the back."

"You sure he won't mind?"

"I'm positive."

"Well, it'll make him easy to spot. Okay, we'll let him in, but if the cops bust us, you'll have to smooth it over. I'll have your usual sent over and tell Mr. Hollon you're here."

"Thanks, Vanessa. You're a gem."

She scuttled away, pleased with the compliment.

I scanned the crowd, finding the usual: cheating husbands, desperate souls looking for money for food or a hit. The depression had hit hard, and people were in search of diversion or salvation. Very few were here for the music, though some were here for the sex they associated with jazz and the clubs. They had no idea the treat they were in for.

Vanessa returned a few minutes later, setting a glass of amber liquid on the table. It didn't smell like food, but it wasn't revolting either.

"Hank's not here yet."

I sighed. "That's because he's a drunk. When do they go on?"

"In five. Mr. Hollon says he'll cut you in."

"It's not about the money," I said, shaking my head, calculating the earliest I might expect Carlisle. If he had the day off, he'd have found me already. So either he'd leave after the day shift and get here around eleven, or he wouldn't come at all. "Tell Ken I'll start them off, but if my guest comes, I'll need to wrap things up, whether or not Hank is here to cover.

She smiled gratefully and placed a "Reserved" sign on my table, so it would still be waiting for me when I finished. It was early, not even ten, but by the end of this set, the place would be filling up. If there was an act. If the act couldn't go on, none of the waitresses would make money tonight either. The club would just clear out.

I picked up my drink and moved backstage, where a nervous girl was fidgeting with her dress.

"Miss Dove," I said in greeting.

"Mr. Stone. Thank you so much —"

"Please," I interrupted. "I'm always happy to help if I can. What's on the list for tonight?"

Kenneth came over, relief showing on his face, and talked me through the playlist. There was only one I didn't know, and we switched it for 'Honeysuckle Rose', which Billie could sing beautifully.

We started the set, and per my usual request, the piano was kept in shadow. That was easy for them to agree to when they could spotlight a pretty, young girl with a voice that didn't match her waifish body.

We were two-thirds through the set when I felt the press of familiar thoughts and spotted the glint of blond hair at the doorway. Billie had hit her stride and was remarkably engaging for one so new to the stage. Even Carlisle got caught up in her voice as he searched the room for me. Vanessa whispered to him and then showed him to my table. He scanned the room as he walked but finally noticed what he was _hearing_, and his eyes darted to the piano. He recognized me through the shadow and dark glasses, and his breath caught.

_Edward._

I nodded as I played, letting him know I could hear him.

_It's... it's good to see you._

I could only hope that would still be true after we talked.

Hank showed up a few songs later stinking of gin but on his feet and with steady hands. He took the bench, and there was a bit of whispering on stage as Kenneth tried to pay me for the set. I told him to give my cut to Billie. Then I made my way offstage.

"That was Mr. Whitey Stone on piano!" came Billie's call as I disappeared into the crowd. "Let's give him a hand. Next we're going to play 'Riffin' the Scotch'.

The song started up as I tapped my cane along the floor, making my way to the table where my oldest friend sat, eyes wide, wondering if he were dreaming.

I sat next to him, not speaking, as Vanessa came to give me a fresh drink and fuss over us.

Carlisle's thoughts were scattered like refracted light, spanning the decade of our life together and barely aware of his surroundings. He had no idea where to start.

Neither did I. There was so much between us. So much time and distance and pain. And I had no idea whether he would want to know me... like this. The song ended and we both clapped, Billie launched into 'Sunny Side of the Street'. The drummer was watching her hips, and his thoughts were going into dangerous territory.

Carlisle had nearly formulated a question when I cut him off.

"Do you like her voice?"

"What?" he asked, forcing his thought out of the past and away from troubling questions of why and when and how long.

"Billie Dove. Do you like her voice?" After all, we knew how to talk about music. We always had.

"Oh, I... yes. Yes, I do." _You really want to talk about the singer?_

I shrugged. "The drummer wants her. Has been trying to figure out how to get her into a dark alley for weeks."

He sucked in a breath. "But she's just a girl."

I scoffed. "She's fourteen, but times are hard," I whispered. "She had to prostitute herself last year, and he knows about it. And he's raped before, though it was years ago."

Carlisle fiddled with the glass that Vanessa had set before him. "So, does that mean you're going to hunt him?" he asked in a low voice.

He hadn't missed my red eyes, even in the dim light. Dark glasses and shadows couldn't hide what I was from him.

"No," I said, laughing darkly. "I'm keeping an eye on him, but even though he's a creep, one rape and some fantasies are not generally enough to merit my... interest."

_That's a sad state of affairs._

I nodded. "There's always someone worse. If he makes a move against Billie, though, I'll have to reconsider my position."

The song ended, and again we joined in the applause. As the next song started, I heard him say softly, "If he came to my hospital, I would try to save him."

I tilted my head, considering that. "And potentially condemn an innocent girl in the process."

_We can never know the full weight of our actions._

"No, but we can play the odds better than that."

_Play the odds? There are lives at stake!_

"Precisely."

The set ended, and we watched as Billie thanked the audience. Carlisle watched the drummer as his eyes followed Billie' movements. He was troubled by the gleam in the man's eye.

_The ones you've killed are worse than him?_

"Much."

_How many?_

"I don't count."

It was a lie, and he knew it. There was no way to _not_ count. I remembered each one of them, every detail.

What I actually meant was _they don't count_. They didn't matter. They weren't worth thinking about.

"So this is how you live?"

He reflected on what he saw. I was clean. I seemed happy. I was playing music and listening, and I had friends of sorts. It wasn't as bad as he'd imagined. _I _wasn't as bad as he'd imagined I could be.

"This is how I live," I agreed.

"Do you have a home?"

I tilted my head, contemplating. Would Carlisle consider my attic room a home? "Of sorts. I have a place to hang Esme's paintings."

His eyes grew wide. "You're the anonymous collector who bought her 'Four Seasons' paintings? You made her so happy."

"They were of her tree in Wisconsin. I had to buy them. Besides, with the depression and all... art wasn't selling very well. I didn't want to see her disappointed. I tried to buy one of hers last year, but I got outbid. Her brushwork has grown looser, but I'd still know it anywhere."

His mind was reeling with this information.

"So you do think of us?"

"Of course, Carlisle." I couldn't quite tell him I still considered him family. I was afraid he wouldn't be able to reciprocate.

The next set started with a few instrumental pieces. Hank really was a decent pianist. Carlisle's thoughts were a mess: wishing I'd give this all up and come home, but admitting that I actually seemed to be doing well. He almost wished that I were doing worse, so he could try to convince me. But that made him feel foolish and self-serving. And though he didn't like being a fool, he refused to act selfishly. After all, I was performing with other musicians, even if it wasn't in an orchestra. I was doing everything he'd told me not to, and I was thriving — or so it seemed. He loved me well enough not ask me to stop. And yet... and yet...

He looked at me as I watched the stage, observing the differences — other than the obvious — in me since we last saw each other. He was noting a hardness in my expression that worried him.

"Why did you bring me here? If you're not ready to come home, why do this? You're not ready to come, are you?"

The question startled me, and I suddenly felt a pang for home — for my piano and pictures and the smell of Esme's paints and Carlisle's books and of the hearth... God, I missed having a fire in the hearth. I'd left it all behind for independence. The truth was, part of me _was_ ready to go back. And I was sure now, for the first time since I left, that I'd be welcome. I'd honestly not been sure. But it wasn't that easy.

"I'm not ready to stop doing this. And I can't go back to the way things were." I rubbed my forehead as Billie took to the stage again. "I invited you here tonight because I've missed you, and you still haven't stopped looking for me, even though I thought you had months ago. I knew you'd go to the alley tonight, and I didn't want to meet you there."

He nodded. "I'm glad. This is a better thing to show me. I can understand the appeal of this." He paused, listening to the music and settling back in his chair, remembering times during Prohibition when we'd gone to speakeasies in Chicago to hear jazz. Before Esme had entered our lives. "I'm sorry, Edward. I'm so sorry I discouraged your playing. It was cruel."

I sighed. "Carlisle, it made me angry for a long time, but I do understand. You love Esme and want to keep her safe."

_No!_

I blinked and turned to look at him.

"I do love her, but..." _But I love you, too, and asking you not to play was like asking her not to paint, or me not to practice medicine. I just couldn't see a resolution. I still can't. And I worry. I know you seem happy and that you are playing. And I love that. I love that you are playing. I love that my first view of you in two years was at the piano. Thank you for that. But the hunting. That will devour you eventually._

"Did it change the others? Did it change Eleazar when he was feeding on them? Did it change the others you consider friends?"

"I wouldn't know. When I met him, he was already feeding on humans."

"Well, then what makes you think it will affect me at all?"

"Because it already has, Edward. You already don't think of them as people," he whispered harshly and then forced himself to calm. "You already size them up as if they are just a collection of their sins."

"Is it so different from triage? You size them up then, seeing them as a collection of their injuries."

"Yes, but I select whom to treat based on _my_ ability — determining which injuries I have the proficiency to heal — not whether _they_ deserve it. If I decide not to treat, it's a judgement on me and my skills, not them."

I scowled at the stage. Regret flowed across his thoughts like water, slipping into every crevice. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"I am. If I'm just to have a night with you, I don't want to spend it arguing. And I do see it, Edward, the appeal of using your gift in this way. You think you're helping people."

"I _am_ helping people."

"Okay. I'm sure you are." But at what cost echoed though his mind.

We were silent for several songs, the tension slowly leaving us. I wouldn't be going home. It became impossible before I'd even really entertained it. I couldn't go home as long as I was feeding like this. Not because Carlisle was being dictatorial, but because he couldn't even imagine living with someone who fed on humans. It was so far out of the realm of possibilities it didn't even cross his mind. To him, me coming home was _the same_ as me forgoing humans.

And that was good for me to know. I would eventually have to get the rest of my things out of the house in Connecticut: the pictures of my family and mementos of my time with Carlisle and Esme.

But I didn't want to think of that tonight, and Carlisle's thoughts were likewise drifting away from painful areas. Neither of us wanted to waste more time on things we couldn't solve.

"How often do you play music?"

I was grateful for the change in subject. Maybe the evening could be salvaged. "Every night, but rarely in public. I'm known around here as a good session musician. I get pick-up work, like tonight, but I won't play in an orchestra or a set band."

After that, we talked about music: jazz and classical and popular. He was thrilled to learn I was still composing.

"And 'Whitey Stone'?"

I laughed. "Well, 'Stone' I gave myself," I said, enjoying the gleam in his eye as he appreciated the joke. "But 'Whitey' just happened at a jam session and stuck. Everyone knows it's a nickname, but no one remembers my actual name anymore. And it's convenient."

"As is your sudden blindness."

"It's the only way for me to interact with the others. It has the added benefit of giving me an excuse to do what others can't. I can go into any club — colored, white, or mixed — and no one ever questions me. I just get a pitying look if I'm in the wrong place. It can be really useful."

We left the club at four in the morning and walked west together. He told me about he and Esme, trying to hide the pain they'd been suffering but not really succeeding. When we got to Central Park, we stopped. He'd be heading north toward Connecticut, and I'd be heading downtown. We lingered, remembering old stories. This park reminded him of the park in Chicago, and his memories were running thick and sticky like honey.

"Dawn is coming," I said into one of the pauses.

He nodded. "It's time then."

He startled me by taking me into his arms and holding me tightly. "If you ever decide to come home, you'll be welcome."

"Thank you," I said, knowing there was really nothing else that could be said. I breathed deeply, memorizing his scent. The next moment I wondered if he could read _my_ mind. He laughed, removing his scarf and placing it around my neck as he smiled affectionately. His smile faded as he studied me — memorizing me. And then with misty eyes he wrapped his hand around the back of my neck, as he always had.

And then he was gone. I just caught sight of his form as it disappeared into the mist and the trees in the distance.

I turned south toward Carnegie Hall.

And for the first time in two years, I felt lonely.

* * *

_AN: There is a lot of music referenced in this chapter, and dates of concerts referenced, especially at Carnegie Hall, are accurate. All have been added to the Prelude Playlist thanks to NixHaw, intrepid music collector and Prelude supporter. I've made her life difficult with all these rarities, and trying to find them in the original(ish) form. She's a trooper! I also want to thank Eeyorefan12 for the help researching music and concerts of the era. I used much of what she found, along with my own research.  
_

_Concerts and venues in order of appearance mentioned in the chapter (not necessarily historic order): Ravel, Carnegie Hall (March 8, 1928); W.C. Handy, Carnegie Hall, April 28, 1928; Small's Paradise in Harlem, an integrated club in Harlem that routinely held jam sessions of local musicians, black and white; Charlie Johnson and His Orchestra, house band at Small's Paradise from 1925 to 1935; Fats Waller, Carnegie Hall (__April 27, 1928) and all over Harlem in general; Gershwin's American In Paris, Carnegie Hall (__December 13, 1928); Grey Dawn (yes, that was a real club, and how _perfect_ is that for a Twilight fanfic?) in Queens, where Kenneth Hollon brought a very young Billie Dove (before she took the more famous moniker of "Holiday") to the stage. Billie (born Eleanor) really did have to prostitute herself at a young age (sadly, a skill she picked up from her mom). So all those bits are historical. Unfortunately, there are no recordings of her that early. So we can get good representation of the other music mentioned in the chapter, but for Billie we're using her first record, which is actually from 1933. I couldn't determine when it was written, so even though I used it in the chapter, that might not be accurate. All I could find about their gigs at the Grey Dawn was that they performed "popular" (read "other people's") songs._

_Obviously, part of the reason this chapter took so long was meticulous research into the excellent music of the late 1920s. Oh, the things I suffer for my craft..._

_Please share your thoughts. Prelude is coming to an end, and the boys, our boys... still so stubborn._


	35. Chapter 35

_AN: Special thanks this chapter to Nixhaw for her music support, Juje_loo for her beta skills, and those two plus Eeyorefan12, BookwormBab2580, Crystal W-L, Malianani, and Woodlily for WCs and general support. The music from this chapter has already been added to the playlist, which is accessible from my profile. Go have a listen while you read — it's lovely.  
_

* * *

**February 1930**

**CPOV**

"Tell me what he said again."

"Esme, we've been over this."

"I know. Just tell me again."

And so I did. I detailed the entire evening for her, from the moment I caught his scent and found an actual trail to my first sight of him onstage to our awkward but eventually enjoyable conversation. I replayed every word spoken, plus as many observations as I could put into words.

"So he seemed happy when you suggested he could come home?"

Did he? "He thanked me," I finally said. "I think he was pleased to know he could come home, but that doesn't mean—"

"He'll come home, then. He will."

I sighed. That really wasn't the impression I'd gotten. I walked across the room, so I was standing right in front of her and placed my hands on her shoulders.

"He might," I said, "but it probably won't be for a while. Esme, where did you go today? Did you try to find him again?"

She nodded. "I found that club you talked about. I spoke with Vanessa."

My breath hitched. "You did? What did she say?"

"That he hasn't been in since the night he met you. That he disappears sometimes for weeks at a time. That she has no idea where he lives or how to find him. It wasn't very encouraging."

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and drew her against me, tucking her head under my chin. "Oh, Esme."

"Why won't he talk to me?" she asked into my chest.

I squeezed her more tightly. "Probably because he wouldn't have been able to say 'no' to you, sweetheart."

"But he can say it to you?"

"Yes," I said with a small laugh. "But he also knew I wouldn't ask."

"_Why_ wouldn't you ask?"

I stepped back, bringing my hands up to cradle her face. She was in so much pain, and I understood it. I'd felt it for two years. I felt it still, but not as the sharp, stabbing pain that took my breath when I _again _remembered that he was gone. Instead I felt it as an ache — still present but far more bearable. I still missed him, but I didn't _mourn_ him as I had been. I no longer feared that he was completely lost, in need of rescue. I stroked her cheeks with my thumbs.

"Because he's happy. Because... who am I to tell him I have all the answers? I've never thought that." She stared. "I still hate it. I hate that he's gone, and I hate that he kills. But I can't hate that he's playing or making friends among musicians. He looked so natural up on stage..." I trailed off, shrugging slightly. "He'd give all that up to come home. Not just the blood, but all of it."

"You told him that he couldn't come home until he stopped killing?"

I thought back through my conversations with Edward. It was so clear in my mind that he couldn't live here as he was, and that he wouldn't want to. But I was sure it had never been spoken. "I didn't issue an ultimatum, but he knows it nonetheless. Nothing about his life there is conducive to living here with us. For both the hunting and for the music, he needs to be there in the city."

"We could move there."

I took a deep breath. I _had_ thought of this, though only long after I'd parted from Edward that night. I was relieved I hadn't lost Edward completely. I felt confident we'd stay in touch over the years. It wasn't what I wanted. It was a far cry from the camaraderie we'd shared when we lived together, and part of me ached for him. But this was bearable and, truthfully, had always been a possibility. That first year, when I was training him, I'd always known he might leave me. It was always possible that I would be merely his sire, with a weak bond and a year's worth of memories. I was _fortunate_ that hadn't been the case, that he still considered me his friend. I would cherish the memories of a time when we were closer and value the friendship that remained. I would pray that he would eventually find his way home; seeing him and realizing he was still himself made me slightly more hopeful that it _could _happen, sometime in the distant future. All of this — the distant friendship, the memories, the fragile spark of hope — _this_ I could do. But what Esme was proposing — living with Edward when he was taking human lives even as I tried to save them — I didn't see how that was possible.

And I was afraid.

Part of why he was doing what he was doing was out of some sort of loyalty to Esme. He killed men who mistreated women, as Esme had been mistreated. What if she saw it as noble? What if she helped him? It was cowardice, perhaps, but it felt like a risk I couldn't take. Risking sweet Esme for a tepid, no doubt strained relationship with Edward? No.

"I think that's a bad idea," I said, straightening up.

"You'll be happier if you're with him. He's like your son."

"He'd take issue with that assessment."

"That doesn't mean it's not true. You're better when you're with him. And you've been so... so..."

I waited for her to continue. "So? Sad?"

"It's not that," she said, shaking her head. "Empty. No, _hollow_. Like a bronze statue. And... I'm not enough. I can't fill you." If she could have made tears, I knew they would have been flowing.

I cupped her face again, realizing with a sinking heart that Edward was not the cause of her pain — _I was_.

"Esme. You are my wife and my love. You bring me more joy and more meaning than I ever thought my life could have. If I've made you feel otherwise, I'm very sorry."

Relief washed across her face, but her eyes were still clouded. "But you are still hollow, and your eyes, there is pain in your eyes again."

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and drew her close, feeling her arms slip around my waist. Pain weighed heavily upon me. "You and Edward are both in my heart, and I can't deny that his leaving has left a hole that may never fully heal. But you, Esme, you fill so much of it, and you provide light to my life. Never doubt that. I hope he will return someday, for all our sakes. But if he doesn't — if he insists on only seeing each other rarely as casual friends — I will come to terms with that and remain your husband and love and honor you until my last breath. I'm sorry my pain has made yours worse. I will try to do better."

She squeezed her arms around me, and I felt her nod into my chest. "I understand. I miss him, too. I just don't want to miss you, as well."

I kissed her crown and stroked her hair. We were silent together for a while.

"You really think he is happy?"

I contemplated all I had seen while with Edward. I was still deeply troubled by his hunting and the subtle changes it seemed to be making in his attitude, but I couldn't find fault with anything else.

"I think _he thinks_ he's happy."

She was quiet in my arms for a long time, lost in her thoughts.

"I hope it's enough."

_Me, too._

**March 1930**

**EPOV**

I slammed my fingers onto the keyboard, the resulting discord reverberating through the basement room.

If anyone were in the building, I'd soon start hearing rumors about their phantom being out of sorts. And they'd be right.

I'd been so prolific. Jazz was fun to write and fit so well my mood since I'd arrived in New York. It was frenetic and joyful. There was an edge that reminded me of the thrill of the chase, a sorrow that mirrored the victims of those I hunted. There were odd spaces and syncopated rhythms and tension and wild abandon.

But I couldn't get the meeting with Carlisle out of my head, and I kept trying to compose something that captured those feelings. And nothing came. Nothing in jazz at least.

I glared at the keys, wondering for a moment if I'd thrown the piano out of tune with my abuse. Sighing, I quietly ran scales to convince myself I didn't need to break out the tuning kit. It wasn't perfect, but it would still do.

My hands wandered the keys aimlessly, searching for traction — for some sort of combination of notes to make sense. Tell the story of us. I'd written for him before after all. But my fingers remained aimless. My thoughts about Carlisle were too scattered. Not just complex. Complex but _understood_ could be worked into a composition. But something about our meeting had been unsettling. And I tried to ignore it, but it just nagged at me from the corner of my mind. And so I couldn't write.

Or maybe Carlisle was just so damned old that his spirit could only be captured with classical-style music.

My fingers continued slowly exploring the keys randomly, thoughts reflecting back to our meeting at the Grey Dawn, as well as our decade together. It had been good, the meeting. And, of course, the decade had been wonderful. Mostly. And the meeting had been so... surreal. I had half expected to be reprimanded for staying away so long, but there had only been awkwardness bordering on shyness. The sense that he accepted my choices yet didn't. It could have been tense and accusatory. Instead we fell into our usual patterns of conversation, and I'd remembered what joy came from that. From talking to someone who knew and understood me. Mostly.

I sighed. Minor chords slowly coalesced into something recognizable, if not familiar. I couldn't remember playing this piece for Carlisle, though Bach was one of his favorites. But the almost wandering melancholy of _Ricercar 6_ was fitting. It never quite resolved, just as my thoughts wouldn't. And it sounded like it was trying to overcome something, or _seeking_ something. But it never found it, continuing to wander until it finally ended with a question mark.

I gently closed the key guard as the last chord reverberated through the room.

I didn't know the question, much less the answer.

**March 1930**

**CPOV**

I quickly turned the steering wheel, trying to get the car to stop sliding. The winds that had started blowing from the north this morning had brought unexpected snow. I'd considered volunteering to stay at the hospital, but I'd already worked a double shift. Besides, the phone lines had been lost. There would have been no way to get word to Esme, and I refused to leave her alone and worried. Turning onto our private road, driving got a bit easier. I was the first on this road, and the snow hadn't been packed, melted, and refrozen as it had been in town. Each moment I felt my tension slipping away. I was still careful, but I was now confident I'd make it home.

And truthfully, one last snow was nice. We'd thought we were well into mud season now, and the blanket of white under the birches and maples looked clean and fresh.

It was going to be hell for Esme's daffodils.

The house came into view, and as expected, most of the new bulbs that had broken through the earth and bloomed in the last week had been cut. A few crocuses remained in the yard, already half buried in snow. They wouldn't survive the storm. Worse, by expending their energy stores and then not enjoying warm, sun-filled spring days, they'd have no chance to replenish the energy they'd spent making leaves and petals and pollen. They might not have enough to try again, either next year or later this spring, when the warmth was more reliable. This one storm might have killed them, though it didn't show yet. They could already be ghosts. That's how quickly life could change.

Smoke flagged from the chimney, and the pile of wood on the front porch had shrunk considerably. Esme had obviously been busy with preparations and fighting the cold for many hours.

"You made it," she said in greeting as she met me at the door, helping me shake out my coat and scarf. "I wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either," I said chuckling. "The roads in town are bad, and the Colchester road was worse. But I'm not expected back at the hospital for two days. Hopefully by then the roads will have cleared." I could always run, of course, but it raised questions if I showed up somewhere in a storm without a vehicle. Everyone knew I lived too far away to walk.

The house was warm. Not cozy, perhaps, but much more pleasant than outside. A fire was lit in the hearth in the library, and there were vases full of daffodils and grape hyacinth and a few early paper whites.

"Early harvest?" I asked, nodding at the vases.

She smiled ruefully. "The garden is going to look so bare next week. But if they are going to die anyway, I figure we may as well enjoy them. I was going to split them this fall, but I don't want to stress them even further."

She'd been working for years to get the garden just how she wanted it. I realized a while ago this was much like any of her projects that weren't on a canvas that could actually leave her presence: it was never finished. A painting might be finished because her need to not work on it was greater than the diminished returns of continuing a brush here or an additional color there. Likewise, a sculpture started looking overworked if she stayed with it too long. In fact, she'd started coming to me, trusting my judgment as to when a piece was finished. But canvasses that _couldn't _leave her presence — the garden, the house, occasionally _me_ — we were in constant states of improvement. Snowfall on an entire generation of bulbs was a solid blow to her plans.

"I'm sure you will be able to make something even more wonderful out of this setback. And the tulips and gladiolas haven't started yet, so they'll survive. And meanwhile, we have the unprecedented joy of living in a fairy garden."

Her eyes gleamed and a smirk crossed her face as she looked around at all the vases. There were a lot of them.

"I suppose I could paint a really crowded still life..."

"That's the spirit," I said, draping an arm over her as we left the entryway. Unfinished paintings were propped up against the wall.

"I left a window open in the attic overnight, because the fumes were so strong after cleaning my brushes. Now it's so cold up there the paint is losing its elasticity."

"Do you usually have this many going at once?" I asked, scanning the partial images. I'd seen her work on three at a time, but there were seven canvases lining the floorboards. Some were in dark greens and earth tones that appeared to be forest scenes. Some were shades of blue and white — snow-scapes interrupted by bare trees and stretched shadows. And some were full of angles and grey geometric shapes — barely recognizable city scenes with indistinct buildings and an almost ghostly quality.

"No," she admitted. "I've been pulled in a number of directions lately."

I squeezed her shoulder as we continued down the hall. Then my steps faltered.

"Why are the doors to the music room closed?"

She drew away to face me. "I closed most of the doors. We don't have enough wood to heat the entire house. I just figured we'd keep to the library and your study until the storm blew over."

"But it will force the piano out of tune."

And for a moment — a still heartbeat — we just stared at each other. It felt like a watershed moment. We'd been living for _so long_ as if Edward might return at any moment — as if we had to keep everything ready for him — that it felt wrong and selfish to make choices that were not in his interest. Which was ridiculous considering that _he_ left _us_ over two years ago, and the piano was probably already out of tune just by lack of use.

And still we looked at each other, each realizing what this moment was, debating internally and watching the same, silent debate on the other's features.

"I'll just—" Esme started.

Her hand was reaching for the door as I simultaneously blurted, "It's fine."

She paused, studying my face. "No, you're right. If we can spare the piano, we should."

"No, _you're_ right. He'll cope if he comes home, and his piano is out of tune. There are worse things. It might be out of tune already... " We would never know, as I couldn't bear the thought of sounding the strings. "Anyway, it's not like we're breaking it up for kindling."

Her small smile didn't reach her eyes as they met mine. She glanced behind her at the piano sitting in the middle of the pristine music room, her hand still on the door, contemplating. After a moment, she swung it all the way open.

"The storm won't last long."

I felt that in one way or another, we'd been telling each other that for far too long.

"Let's hope not. If it does, I'll go to find more wood."

I held my hand out to her and laced our fingers together as she came to stand beside me. We walked into the library to wait out the storm together, as usual.

**July 1930**

**EPOV**

Black Tuesday had actually happened last year at the end of October. The papers made it sound devastating, and there were a few suicides down on Wall Street. But the reality of it — what it all meant for everyone else — that took months to sink it. At first, people assumed that only Wall Street would be affected. Christmas and New Years came, and people tried to remain optimistic, albeit cautiously. Jazz still spilled from the clubs onto the streets, trying to help people forget their woes. Trying to distract folks until all the bad news blew over.

But it didn't blow over.

There were runs on the banks, and then banks failed. Factories began to close, and jobs disappeared. But there was still some hope. Stocks had been regaining some of their ground, and the jobs, it was thought, would return.

Now, nine months after the first crash, it had happened again. The Dow Jones had lost nearly a third of its value in the last 5 weeks, getting almost as low as it had been with the original fall, losing all the ground it had scratched out in the months before. And this time, people knew exactly what it meant. This time, they despaired immediately. It was an economic apocalypse. There were no jobs. There was no food. And people were being turned out onto the streets.

Depression.

Only people weren't depressed, they were angry. And desperate, angry people did despicable things.

My hunting got a lot more interesting.

**October 1930**

**CPOV**

I was sitting at the piano bench when Esme arrived home. She paused, watching me for a moment, but said nothing as my fingers traced along the keys. I applied no pressure, caused no vibration to disturb the still, silent strings. I often sat here, but the piano had been mute since Edward's departure.

"James Kincade dropped by the hospital today," I said softly.

"I thought he retired," she answered.

I nodded, more to myself than to her. "At the end of my first year here. He mentioned that I hadn't changed a bit." I heard her breath still. "Several of the other doctors were speaking about it later, though they thought I was too far away to hear them."

I looked up at her to make sure she understood what I was telling her.

"How much longer?"

I looked back at the piano keys. "It's rarely safe to stay longer than ten years. We've already been here nearly nine. I want to push it for as long as we can. If we leave, it will make it harder for him to find us."

"He'll come home," she said, retreating up the stairs to the attic, where no argument would dispel this assumption.

I nodded, but it was more habit than hope.

For I did not think he'd be coming back. Not anymore. When I saw him in January, he'd been happy. Settled in a life that gave him joy and for which he did not notice — or did not care about — the price it was extracting from him. I thought perhaps our meeting would spur some longing for his previous life. That I might find another "invitation" along the streets of Harlem or Manhattan in my monthly ventures to the city. But there had been nothing, and I was no longer surprised.

What could I offer that compared to the lure of music and blood and righteous vigilantism? Hearth and home were not worth to him what he'd give up. And I couldn't even blame him. Having seen him on the stage at that club, looking so much himself, despite the red eyes and hard mouth — it was obvious he was happy. And I loved him. I wanted him to be happy.

I would have to learn to let him go. For all our sakes.

But sitting at his piano, surrounded by his music and pictures, I had no idea how to do it.

**December 1930**

**EPOV**

It was eleven at night by the time I reached Harlem. Callers were on the streets, trying to entice folks into the clubs on a Saturday night. Music was spilling onto the streets. The taps of my cane merged with the clicks of high-heeled shoes as couples strolled along the street in search of laughter and food and drink.

"Whitey!" came a call from the entrance to Small's.

"Thomas," I answered, turning toward his voice and letting him hold the door open and usher me in by the elbow.

"Are you jamming tonight?"

"No. I've just come to listen."

And that much was true, though I hadn't come to listen to music. A cacophony of thoughts hit me as I entered the ballroom. I requested a small table in the back as the first set started. There was no singer tonight, and the music just bled into the background as I sorted through the snippets of thought, flashes of memories that burned brightly for a second and then faded and drifted away, like the vapors above a fire. There were fifteen hundred people in here on a good night — surely one would be worthy of my attention. Sifting through their thoughts was like sifting through sand for a diamond.

A set ended and then another began; still I found nothing of significance. People were focused on thoughts of Christmas and homecomings; I tuned them out viciously. The people who could afford to come to Small's were apparently not suffering. No one was thinking of crimes, past or future. It was useless.

I left in the middle of the set, frustrated. I stalked down the street like a proper monster, heading for seedier clubs with worse music and a much worse clientele.

**February 1931**

**CPOV**

I'd started quietly writing letters of inquiry. We hadn't discussed destinations yet. Part of me was tempted to go far away. Oregon and Washington and even parts of California still had wide expanses of virgin forest. Everything would look different, _smell_ different. Maybe the memories of Edward would settle into the background of my mind if the terrain and vegetation looked as different as the town and the people.

Of course, those new states didn't have much in the way of art societies, much less galleries to sell paintings or sculpture. There was talk of a new museum in Seattle, but it was still uncertain whether such a grand gesture would take hold as the Depression stretched out and began to look more permanent than originally expected.

Ironically, Seattle had an excellent music school.

I rubbed my brow as I looked over the ads in the back of _The Journal of the American Medical Association_. Universities were advertising for teaching positions for the fall. I hadn't taught since I met Edward; perhaps that would help distract me. I didn't want to move to the Midwest again. Or the South, obviously. Perhaps Nova Scotia? I had no idea what Canadian documents looked like, so that was probably not well advised.

It struck me how different this search felt compared to my last. Then I was trying to find a perfect combination of characteristics that would interest Esme, Edward and me. Now I felt like I was running. Looking for something with a modicum of interest for Esme, distraction for me, and as few memories of Edward as possible. And even as I tried to control my emotions and think logically about future plans, I sensed myself failing.

The thought of him finally returning in a few years to find the house empty was depressing, but the idea of him finding a new family in it was unbearable. Nor could I bear the idea of packing up his things and taking them with us. I _had_ to find a way to move on without him. Esme and I could make a fresh start, but not if we were moving his piano and music. I would write to Mr. Jackson and deed this house to Edward. I chuckled ruefully to myself. Edward now had a growing collection of homes he didn't bother to live in, housing pianos he rarely played.

I picked up my fountain pen and got a new sheet of paper, quickly writing Mr. Jackson's letter before returning my attention to my next job, my next move. Away. My eyes squeezed tight, trying to shut out the reality of it. This was _wrong_! I shouldn't be leaving him. And yet, what choice did I have? Edward knew the rhythm of my life — how long I could stay in each home. He knew that if he stayed away long enough, I would be forced to leave. He _knew_!

The pen in my hand shattered, and I growled and threw the shards across the room. I heard them clatter against glass and plaster, and when I opened my eyes, I saw one large shard was actually embedded in the wall just below the photo of Edward and me. Droplets from the ink reservoir were splattered across the glass.

I sank my face into my hands, not caring that I was smearing ink onto my temple and brow. My breaths came in sharp gasps that cut through my torso and soul. And for the first time in decades, I gave myself over to my rage. I growled and bellowed to the sky, grateful Esme was in town and not able to see my utter breakdown.

Later, when I was spent, I cleaned the room and bathed myself. I was seated again and writing letters as if nothing had happened. She popped her head through the door of my study to let me know she was home. If she noticed any stains of brown ink or fragments of wood and porcelain that used to be the decorations on my desk, she didn't say anything.

I took a deep breath and looked at the ads again. Maine had a large regional hospital and expansive forests. New Hampshire had artist colonies. I would focus my search in New England.

**April 1931**

**EPOV**

I had never hunted a woman before. I had always hunted to _protect_ women.

But I was furious.

Amanda Carson's mere shadow froze the thoughts and blood of her children. They were quiet and fearful when she was sober; they hid and ran from her when she was drunk. If they didn't, they knew they would bear the brunt of her rage against the wrong turns her life had taken. When I whisked her out of her apartment window, she was too drunk to scream. Alcohol tainted the blood and made it impossible for me make her understand why this was happening to her. She couldn't see her sins. Her mind was just foggy and then gone. It was completely unsatisfying, but at least I felt her kids were safer.

That was until I checked on them a few weeks later and saw how their father treated them.

I was tempted to take him out, too, but that would leave them as wards of the state. Would that impersonal neglect be better than this targeted abuse? I honestly didn't know. I'd never doubted the moral rectitude of one of my kills before, but as I watched this family from a distance over the next few weeks, I realized the complicated outcomes that came from my actions. The father did unthinkable things to his daughter — far worse than anything the mother had done — and I felt powerless to stop it for fear of putting her in an even worse situation.

In the end, I avoided that part of town, wishing I'd never stumbled upon the unfortunate family.

**May 1931**

**CPOV**

Esme's fingers were laced in mine, our palms touching. Her thumb slowly stroking up and down mine. The air was moist with the promise of spring, but not so humid that the stars were obscured in any way.

"Oh, there's one."

"I saw it," I whispered, rubbing my cheek against her hair. I shifted my position on the roof slightly, and she adjusted so her head still leaned against my shoulder as we lay on our backs, side by side. The Lyrida weren't as impressive a meteor shower as the Perseids, but it was still nice to be outside stargazing as we talked.

"So, Maine?" she asked, broaching the subject we'd been dancing around for several days.

"We could. The position is fine, but I think I'd prefer the job in Rochester. It's surgery and has the benefit of being at a teaching hospital. I might even teach a lecture course in a year or two."

"You'd enjoy that?"

I nuzzled against her hair again. "It's been a few decades since I worked with students. It could be fun." Of course, they'd be Edward's age or just a bit older. The experience wouldn't be reminiscent of any I'd had with Edward. I hadn't taught medicine since knowing him. But I had taught _Edward_, and the students themselves might remind me of him. I sighed softly, the familiar ache in my chest flaring. There was not a day that went by when I didn't think of him anyway. The students couldn't really make it worse.

Esme was nodding. Ready to follow my lead.

"There's a museum that's been struggling. It closed for a year, but a foundation raised enough money to keep it going for a bit longer. They could probably use a philanthropist with good organizational skills."

She snorted, but seemed to consider that. My Esme was surprisingly good at convincing people to donate to the arts. And it would be good for her to have a project in her new hone that gave her some tie into the community.

"And I suppose there's really no reason that I couldn't keep painting and using my current pseudonyms. I'd have to drive a bit further to get the painting to the broker, but really, New York isn't that far from Rochester."

"No, it really isn't." And that had more implications than either of us were ready to face. "You should use a courier, though. Best not to mix the old and new lives too much."

"A middle man to meet my middle man?"

I squeezed her hand. "It's just like avoiding physical tracking: the more confused you can make the path, the less likely anyone will be able to trace it all the way from one end to the other. Unfortunately, it's how we have to live."

She turned toward me and snuggled into my side as I wrapped my arm around her. Her hand settled on my chest. "A minor inconvenience and an easy price to pay to be with you."

I took her hand and pressed it into my chest.

"Truly?" I whispered.

"Always, Carlisle."

We were silent for a while, watching the cold beauty of starlight against the inky sky. She probably saw three times as many colors or patterns in it than I did, but I was slowly learning from her. No one lived through the pain of life and retained the ability to find beauty in it like Esme. No one had seen such darkness, yet found such light. I squeezed her more tightly against me, willing myself to focus on the light in my life.

"When is the position open?"

"Immediately. Teaching doesn't start until the fall, but they need a surgeon."

"You want to leave now?"

_No_. The truth was I didn't _ever_ want to leave, but that wasn't healthy, or fair to Esme. We needed to look forward.

"I've transferred this house into...his name. I need to give notice to the hospital in Hartford, and we need to find a house in Rochester. I thought I'd tell them I'd start in a month, maybe six weeks. Do you have reasons you need to linger here?"

She was still for several breaths, and I wasn't sure if she was thinking about her commitments in town, her art, or Edward.

"No," she finally whispered. But I could feel her hesitancy.

"Maybe we can make a trip up this weekend before I give them a final answer, so you can get a feel for the town. We can go to the museum and even look at a house or two. If you don't like it, we can go to Maine the following weekend and see if that's better. I could be happy either place, Esme. The choice is yours. I can always teach the next time we move if you prefer Maine."

She nodded, and I felt her relax against me. "I'm sure Rochester will be fine, but I would like to visit it before we commit."

"It's going to be your home," I agreed. "It's important you're comfortable with the choice." I absently ran my fingers along her arm as we both contemplated the changes before us. "I'll have them book a hotel for us for the weekend. We haven't taken a trip in a long time anyway. And we can get a better sense of the hunting grounds, though it's so close to the Canadian border, I'm not really worried."

A plan. A tentative plan, but still, more of a plan than we'd had in years.

I tried to ignore the weight in my chest.

**June 1931**

**EPOV**

I dressed in my blue suit for the evening. I would hunt in the Bronx tonight. There had been another fight two nights ago: young, jobless punks picking fights with old men on the skid. Desperation and anger everywhere. It would be easy to find someone appropriate.

I had fed just last week, but gone were the days when I tried to ration my food. Gone were the days when I would tolerate discomfort in an attempt to spare them. Why bother? The ones I hunted deserved no pity; why should I be uncomfortable? Why should I endure so much as a tickle in my throat when prey were _everywhere_? I was still nagged by my one mistake — no, not a mistake exactly. Amanda Carson had been a miserable human being. It wasn't my fault her husband had been even more cruel. I might not have chosen the worst offender in that case, but that didn't make her innocent. I'd resolved not to think on it anymore.

It was actually a bit overwhelming. These were desperate times. People were doing desperate things. Cruel and merciless thoughts were everywhere; it was almost impossible to avoid them. Even the visitors to glittering Carnegie Hall were thinking vile, desperate thoughts just under their pressed-tuxedo exteriors.

It made me want to block them all out. They were less than me, the keepers of those inhuman thoughts.

Every time I took out one of these miserable creatures, two more took his place, each just as contemptible as the last. There was no end, no dent I was making in the scourge of humanity. I was not making the world a better place...my efforts were like bailing the Titanic with a teaspoon. But it didn't matter. None of it mattered. Just the hunt.

The sound of the orchestra warming up bombarded my room: screeching violins and nasal reeds. I snarled in contempt, angry at the intrusion on my thoughts, and then caught myself.

When had I stopped liking the sound of the orchestra?

I leaned my head out of my attic room, looking down on the stage far below. It was the same orchestra it had always been. The same one that had thrilled me when we first arrived on the east coast years ago. The same one I'd watched night after night when I'd first struck out on my own.

When was the last time I'd sought it out? When was the last time I'd actually _listened_? The Josef Hofmann concert in January? Where he'd played Bach and Chopin? Had there been one since?

I looked around the room, dim light not hiding the fact that it looked neglected. Dust covered Esme's paintings and Carlisle's scarf, and worse, my boxes of sheet music. I hadn't so much as touched any of it for months.

When had I last gone to play the piano in the basement? Hell, when had I last gone to Small's?

Ages ago. Well, I'd been to Small's recently, but only to hunt. I hadn't played music at all for months, and I hadn't played it regularly for over half a year. What was wrong with me?

I looked in the mirror, studying my face for the first time in ages. It was shocking. Not the red of my eyes — I'd long since grown used to that — but the almost vacant, hostile stare gazing back at me.

I barely recognized myself. When had I become... _this_?

I looked around the room again, feeling like I hadn't really _seen_ it for... God, I had no idea. In years past, there would have been half-read books piled up by the chair, sheet music sitting loose on the bookshelf, and playbills from the concerts I'd attended stacked and waiting to be filed. Now there was nothing. I was looking at the rooms of a stranger, but the stranger was me.

I collapsed into my chair, running a finger across the thick dust coating a box of sheet music. The A-D composers. Bach, Beethoven, Chopin... even _Chopin_ I hadn't touched for God knows how long.

Where had my head been? What had I been thinking about these last few months? Only the hunt. I'd spent so long in other people's minds looking for their faults, I no longer knew my own mind. Or my own faults.

In short, Carlisle had been right. I'd lost myself.

Fuck.

I started removing my tie. I wouldn't need a suit where I was going.

* * *

_AN: We are coming to the end of Prelude, and as I think back on the (nearly) three years I've been writing it, I realize how much I was spurred on by my chats with readers. The names of those who have routinely reviewed have changed over the years. Life gets busy. Interests change. And I have often had long periods between my chapters, making it hard for those trying to read to maintain a connection to the story. Still, I am very grateful to those of you I heard from. You kept me motivated and interested and often asked questions that took me in new directions. Sometimes hearing what struck you in a chapter made me realize what the most important parts were, and I was often surprised. As the story comes to an end, I want to thank you for your feedback. I don't think I could have finished without it. (Not that I have — there are still a chapter and epilogue left.). I'm fortunate to receive reviews that are thoughtful and thought provoking. I feel very lucky._

_Thanks, as ever, for reading. Please continue to share your thoughts. I love hearing them._


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

**July 1931**

**CPOV**

"Esme, is your suitcase ready for the car?"

I put my case in the trunk, along with the briefcase containing paperwork and the contact information for the realtor. We weren't expected for two days but had decided to take a detour through some of the Finger Lakes if we could make the time for it. The weather was fine, so we were going to travel at night. I could only hope that the forecasted thunderstorms would hit before it was time to meet the realtor for our home search.

I made my way in the house and realized I might want to bring some other reading material in case we got trapped inside the hotel by sunny weather. Sighing, I squared my shoulders and entered the library. Many of the books were already packed for the move, and I went to the stack by the sofa and opened the second box down, retrieving _Middlemarch_. Fearing and preparing for change was something I could understand at the moment— the residents of Middlemarch would be my friends.

I looked around the room, unable to resist the dismal sight — the extraction of two people from a room that had housed three. For the most part, our books had all been separate. My bookcases held my books, Esme's hers, and Edward's his. So now there were two nearly empty bookcases, and one that was completely full. It made the room look oddly lopsided, but I was sure the activity of packing _my_ bookcase had been less painful than separating my books from Edward's would have been, had everything been mixed together.

The walls were another matter altogether. I'd pulled down mine and Esme's paintings and left Edward's. The result was an unbalanced arrangement full of obvious gaps. When he returned — if he ever returned — it would be obvious we'd just extricated ourselves from our... well, _his_ home.

I walked over to one of his paintings, still on the wall. It had been his father's, and I was particularly fond of it. I traced the frame with my finger and memorized the strokes making up the trees and lake, light shimmering on the water and quaking leaves. I didn't know if I'd ever see it again once we were moved. Beside it was a barely visible rectangular mark on the wall where one of my paintings had rested, protecting the wall from the fading effects of the sunlight. I wondered if it would depress him, these gaps and dark marks on the walls. He'd probably just move the paintings into a better arrangement and think no more of it. I shook my head at my sentimentality. The sooner we found a new house, the better. I could still hear shifting fabric in the bedroom as I took the stairs two at a time.

"Esme, what on earth are you packing?" I asked as I saw a second case. "We're only going to be gone a few days." I looked at the dresses spread out on the bed. Years ago, when she'd still been burning on the sofa in Wisconsin, I'd asked Edward how many clothes one woman needed. Even after a decade of living with her, I was still constantly surprised.

She gave me a look that would have been withering if not for the humor in her eyes.

"Carlisle, I am a doctor's wife. There are certain standards that must be kept."

I rolled my eyes and snorted, reminding myself again of Edward. "Have you forgotten, my dear, that I'm coming straight from residency? Again. We are but modest newlyweds."

She walked over to me and wrapped her arms around my neck. "Newlyweds. That has an appealing ring to it." She tipped her face up and caught my bottom lip between hers. And that nearly always distracted me from whatever I was thinking only moments ago. Esme's lips just had that power over me. I wrapped my arms around her tightly, deepening the kiss, aligning our bodies, and calculating a new route that would get us to Rochester on time even if we left two or three — Esme's tongue delved more deeply into my mouth — or _seven_ hours later than I'd originally anticipated.

I was drawing my fingers through her hair and cupping her head in my hand when the doorbell rang.

"We have a doorbell?" I mumbled as I broke off the kiss.

Esme laughed, pulling away from me and moving down the stairs toward the door. I followed, curious. We seldom had visitors, and the movers hadn't even been called with a date yet.

Esme froze several feet from the door

"Esme—" I started, and then I smelled it, too. Smelled _him_.

Esme rushed to the door and threw it open. I didn't even get a clear view of him before he was engulfed in Esme's hug. His eyes were closed. As I watched from the base of the stairs, his arms slowly came up across her back, and his chin lowered to rest on her shoulder. He surrendered completely to her embrace, holding her tightly for several long moments."

"Come in," she said, starting to loosen her grip.

His eyes opened, and his gaze met mine over her shoulder. His _amber_ gaze. Not as light or golden as I'd seen it in the past, but a far cry from city crimson.

"Not yet, Esme," he said, untangling himself as his eyes held mine from the other side of the threshold. "Maybe Carlisle would be willing to come out with me — for a talk."

_Talk? _After all this time and silence, it was almost difficult to process the request.

"Please."

I looked into his eyes, realizing he must have been feeding on animals for weeks to have cleared the color so much. It gave me hope. And with that came fear.

But I'd never been particularly good at refusing him anything. Not when the only thing risked was my own pain. Wariness and joy fluttered in my stomach, and I damned my schedule to hell and vowed to drive all night and day if necessary to have this time with Edward.

"Okay," I said, moving forward. I placed my hands on Esme's shoulders and kissed her temple as I passed. "We'll be back soon." Or I would be. I still didn't understand Edward's intentions. I immediately felt a sense of familiarity as I nodded to him.

_Lead the way._

He nodded to Esme and then turned, sprinting into the forest.

Damn, I'd forgotten how fast he was. I pushed myself to keep up as he headed north and east. My mind was reeling with the irony of time. For this felt so familiar — following my best friend through the forest — and only minutes ago I would have sworn it could never happen again. I was at once struck by the fact that it felt as if he'd never left. Like I must be dreaming, and he was only a figment or phantom.

He stopped abruptly, giving me a strange look as I nearly ran into him.

_What?_ I finally asked when I couldn't decipher his expression.

He gave a rueful snort. "Others have thought I was a phantom. I thought you'd know me better."

"I used to."

He looked away, chagrinned. We stood for a moment in awkward silence.

"Here?" he asked.

I looked around. Whenever we'd had these difficult one-on-one talks in the past, we'd always found some high ground. We weren't far from a ridge I used for hunting. I patted his arm as I passed him.

"This way."

He followed, and again, I was overwhelmed by the sense of familiarity. I was still too stunned to find joy in Edward's presence — too unsure what it meant — but the pull of our friendship was still so strong that familiarity itself was _almost_ joy. Having him there with me, running through the forest, felt almost like happiness.

I stamped down any other thoughts as we began to climb. Edward already had every advantage in this situation. Handing him my every hope and fear before we'd even started talking only made me feel more vulnerable.

I didn't dare to hope what this meant — his arrival, before we left, with cleared eyes. He could be just saying goodbye, but if that were the case, why change his diet? He could be wanting to discuss the transfer of the property to his name, but again, why change his diet? Why come in person?

No, I didn't _dare_ to hope. And yet, it was there — a warm weight in my chest. It was thrilling and terrifying, and as we reached the top of the ridge, it was all I could do to contain my impatience and push down the swirling confusion of emotions trying to escape me.

I stood at the crest and faced him. His expression shifted from determination to awkward hesitance.

"Edward?"

He tried several times to start his sentence, only to falter and turn away to study the view. We were being as awkward as we'd been in the Grey Dawn, only this time we didn't have the spectacle on stage to distract us. A fleeting, irrelevant concern crossed my mind as I wondered idly if Miss Dove was okay.

"I don't know," he whispered. "That's part of the problem."

_That you lost track of Billie Dove?_

"Yes. Well, no. But it's a symptom of what's wrong."

"And what's wrong?" I asked, hope that he was coming home flaring in my chest so brightly I could swear it was visible. I forced it down, willing my gaze and voice to remain steady. I was his friend. If he was coming to me for advice, I would listen and offer what I could.

"I..." He paused, looking at the ground. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "I... damn, I really didn't think this would be so hard," he muttered, running his hand through his hair nervously. "I... no. You. You were right."

"I was right."

"Yes. You were right."

I waited for more. "About?"

"Pretty much everything," he admitted, shoving his hands in the pockets of his suit pants.

I studied him for several long moments, memories of the boy that had lived with me, the man he'd grown into, and the hunter he'd chosen to be all juxtaposed with my current view of him. It was as if time collapsed in on itself, and I could see all of my versions of Edward at once. His brows furrowed in a manner so familiar it made me ache. I suddenly felt old.

I sat down, facing the valley view, and patted the grass next to me to encourage Edward to sit beside me. And again, there were flashes of memory of us sitting beside each other — in the car, high in a tree, at his piano. This was often how we spoke of difficult things.

"Perhaps you should start at the beginning. 'Everything' encompasses a lot, and I seriously doubt I was right about so much."

He looked out over the tree tops, leaning back on his hands. I resisted the urge to move my shoulder closer to his.

"You were right about the hunting," he said after taking a deep breath. "It made so much sense at first. It made me feel so righteous and free and in control. But it changed over time."

I nodded and waited, knowing he would continue when he found the words.

"At first, I waited weeks between meals. I would scout likely candidates for days —weeks if necessary — making sure I had the worst offender in my sights when it came time to finally hunt. And in between, I played, wrote, and heard music. It was just _amazing, _Carlisle. I was hearing world-class musicians every week. Music was my life. Feeding was just something I had to do, and hunting that scum was... well, that was far more exhilarating than it probably should have been; I won't try to deny it. But I felt like I was doing something good. Using my powers to help those who couldn't defend themselves."

I'd tried to imagine his life for so long. I'd dreaded thinking of how he lived. Had he been homeless? Had he been alone? Had he found others of our kind?

"I was alone, but not homeless. Actually, I lived the last place we spent time together."

"The Grey Dawn?"

"No, before that."

I thought back to the night he left. "Carnegie Hall?" I asked, doubtfully.

He nodded. "At first, I lived in a basement rehearsal room."

I snorted. I couldn't help it. It was just so... perfect. If he couldn't be home, at least he had been somewhere that could support his talent and obsessions.

"God, Carlisle, it had the most beautiful Steinway. Another two feet longer than mine. The upper register was just magic. I played it nightly. The janitors thought the place was haunted."

I laughed outright then. My Edward, haunting a basement rehearsal room under the most famous stage in New York City. I was surprised I hadn't read about it in the newspaper.

"I tried to be discreet," he added. "I failed, but I tried. Vampire speed came in handy. They never actually found me. They may have heard Chopin through the floorboards, but they never found any evidence that I was there. Sometimes I was hiding within ten feet of them."

"What would you have done if they'd found you?" I asked, trying to imagine living so dangerously.

"Honestly, Carlisle, I have no idea," he said, chuckling.

Our laughter died down slowly, and it felt good. It felt _so good_ to laugh with him. Even though I knew something worse was coming.

"It started changing with the Depression. Shortly after I met with you. I was... unsettled. And the thoughts around me grew darker and darker, and people just... they sort of lost their minds with worry and grief and fear. And they _did_ things. Sometimes it was for survival, but just as often, it was to dish out the cruelty that they'd been handed. Everything just escalated or spiraled down, and I couldn't block enough of it out. It just... wore me down."

His voice became rough, and his words more faltering. He was confessing to me. I wasn't sure if he just needed a friendly ear or was hoping for absolution, but I could tell he was struggling.

He leaned forward, gazing across the valley, worrying his lip as his foot jittered.

"You can tell me anything, Edward."

He nodded shakily. His breathing was ragged, and I felt sure he'd be fighting tears if we had the ability to shed them. I placed my hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort against horrors I still didn't know.

"After months of it, I just started hating them. _All_ of them. I couldn't distinguish anymore between the ones that were really, truly bad and the ones that had just had bad luck. I just felt contempt. They were _all_ bad.

"I started hunting more often and playing less. The voices were everywhere, and the blood didn't quench the thirst that was plaguing me anymore. I'd kill and drink, and nothing got better. I didn't feel better. Removing the thugs I killed didn't make the world better. Everything just got worse. And I killed... God, I killed so many, Carlisle. I was barely aware of how many until I stopped."

He was trembling now, and I moved my hand to his far shoulder and drew him against me as his last words echoed through my mind. He'd stopped. _He'd stopped!_ I knew it, of course, from his amber irises, but to hear him say it made my heart soar. The parable of the prodigal son flashed through my mind, and I suddenly _understood_ it in a way I never had before. I may have been a minister's son, but never before had I felt the desire — the _need_ — to forgive absolutely _anything._ It pressed against my heart like a weight. Perhaps it was a feeling only a fa—

"Carlisle, stop," Edward groaned, and dread flooded me as I realized what he'd just heard. I'd already ruined it.

He shook his head. "I _do_ want to come home. But you have to understand how bad I got. You have to understand what I _did_. You might not want me." His voice had shuddered to a whisper.

My entire being rejected the words, but I remembered enough about ministry to know that some things needed to be said before they could be let go. I squeezed his shoulders, resisted kissing the top of his head, and urged him to continue.

"Do you remember what you told me after the Horowitz concert, just before I left with my first kill?"

I nodded. I remembered the conversation vividly. I'd often gone over it, trying to think of something I could have said that wouldn't have led to me losing my only son… friend… brother… _Edward_, I finally settled on realizing there was no single word for what he was to me. At least not in a language I knew.

"You told me: 'Why would you focus on the darkness in the world? It will eat at you, Edward. It will consume you until you no longer recognize yourself.' And you asked me to come home with you."

I nodded, remembering exactly how it felt: exactly how the shadows of the alley played across his face and the smell of the garbage and the incongruity of my shining _Edward_ in this place, in a tuxedo, holding a human aloft with the intention of feeding on him. My mind still had trouble accepting it.

He closed his eyes against my memory.

_Sorry._

He hissed violently, "You have _nothing_ to be sorry for!" and then collapsed against me, trembling.

After several moments, he'd gotten himself under control again. I tried to keep my mind open and accepting. He was already suffering so much. He swallowed several times and then took a deep breath.

"A little over a month ago, I realized that I hadn't played for over half a year. Not in the basement, not in the jazz clubs, not anywhere. I hadn't touched any of my sheet music. I hadn't _listened_ to music in months. I'd become something I didn't recognize."

_**Someone**__ you didn't recognize, _I corrected.

"No, _something._ Just a vacant, mindless hunter. And not nearly as discerning as I'd started out."

_But you only killed those you thought deserved it? Who had harmed others? _And for some reason, that question was easier to ask without a voice.

He paused, and I closed my eyes, realizing I'd asked a question that would cause us both pain.

"I did at first. But after everything got so desperate — the Depression's been terrible in the city — it was harder to tell what was in people's hearts. Good people were driven to evil deeds. And I cared less about being sure of myself. There was one I killed... by the next week, I was sure it had been a mistake. She wasn't perfect; she beat her kids. But there were others who were worse. She just made me mad, and I didn't study the situation well enough. While I was hunting humans, I thought she was my only mistake. But in the last month, living in the forest again, I finally had enough quiet to _think_ again. And now I believe there were many others I can't really be sure about. They weren't innocent, but who is, Carlisle?"

"Not very many," I agreed. "No one _I_ know."

He laughed ruefully and leaned more heavily into my side. I regretted that holding him like this prevented me from seeing his expression, but perhaps that was easier for both of us at the moment.

We sat together in silence for a long time as his breathing became calmer. And despite the pain of the conversation and the wide gulf between his actions and my ideals, I could only find joy in his presence. His scent was in my nostrils, his solid skin under my fingers, and the man I'd feared was virtually dead to me was _here_ and breathing and hurting and very, very real. And god, I loved him.

"237," he said, and the pain and uncertainty in his voice made me ache. This, I realized, is where he thought he'd lose me. Somehow he thought that I could forgive Esme her one kill but wouldn't be able to forgive Edward his... not once I knew the number.

"It's completely different," he whispered. "Esme's was an accident. I _reveled _in my kills."

"You aren't reveling now," I said quietly, rubbing my cheek against his hair as he leaned into me.

"No," he choked out.

It was an awful number. It was shocking to think of Edward consciously selecting 237 people for death: stalking them, finding a place to feed from them in a busy city, and disposing of them... for he had been at least that discreet. I lived close enough that if there had been a body found drained of all blood, I would have read about it in the paper. He had not made the choices I would have wished for him, but he _had_ been an exemplary vampire.

And as awful as 237 was, it could have been worse. He'd been gone three and a half years. His total was a little more than one per week, on average. I'd seen half that many taken in a single feeding frenzy of the Volturi. And those had been random victims, entirely innocent.

"Some of mine were not as guilty as they should have been," Edward repeated. He was clearly distressed by the fact that his original plan of only taking the wicked had slipped as his instincts focused on the hunt rather than his ideals. "I just can't be sure. Toward the end, my perceptions were so skewed. It took me weeks in the forest to clear my head enough to see it, but once I did..." His voice trailed off.

"I'd seen it in the city," he continued. "Drunks would lose their minds while they were drinking and hurt those they loved. And when they sobered up, they would hate themselves for what they'd done. I was like that. Not so extreme, perhaps — I never blacked out like they would. But I _was _altered. My judgment, my pursuits. Lost to the hunt. I was lost.

"And I think," he said, gasping, "I think I caused more harm than I meant to. Possibly more harm than good. I don't think so — I _hope_ not — but it's possible. I was trying to protect the innocent, and those people I took did bad things... some of them did terrible things. But was that all they were? In the beginning, I was careful, taking only the worst of the worst. But toward the end, I didn't weigh the good against the bad. I just saw the bad and punished it, wiping out whatever good there might have been along with it. Their lives were complicated, interwoven with people who were good. It was all just far more complicated than I expected. Some of those people I killed probably left a gap in the lives of those they touched. Like the gap I left in your life. I know I harmed you and Esme, and for that..."

I held him tighter, almost rocking him as his shuddering breaths bordered on sobs.

"I'm sorry, Carlisle. I'm _so_ sorry."

My thoughts were scattered as I held him, waiting for his breath to even out again. I felt shocked and relieved, wary and hopeful. But through it all was a small joyful feeling deep in my chest, warming with the unspoken chant, _He is home. He is home_. And not just physically. My thoughts turned to the story of the prodigal son. I'd never shunned Edward for his choices, but he had been lost to me. And I'd feared he was, for all intents and purposes, dead to me... at least as our relationship _had_ been. And now _he was here_ and speaking with an understanding and maturity that I couldn't have predicted him capable of just a few years ago. And I understood that biblical father's disproportionate reaction. I wanted to celebrate and shower him with affection, but I knew it was too soon for him to accept it. And despite all his admissions, I truly did not know his intentions or desires.

I took him by the shoulders and shifted him until we were facing each other. He would not meet my gaze. I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, as I'd done when I first started guiding him, and used my other to push his hair from his eyes.

_Edward._

He sighed, raising his gaze to mine as if to accept a verdict. "Edward, taking the life of another is a terrible weight. I know it. Both those I've had to take in battle and those I couldn't save on the operating table. And life _is_ complicated. I've thought many times about what you told me that evening in the Grey Dawn. You worry that you may have killed some who were better than you assumed, but now I've started to wonder if I've saved some who are worse than I assume. Who then go on to hurt others. I'll never know. Neither of us will _ever_ know the full balance of our effect on the world. We can only do what we think is the best decision in the moments we are given. No one can predict all the outcomes of their actions.

"You have killed 237 people, and that is a terrible burden. But compared to any vampire other than Esme or me, it is a small sum, Edward. Vampires live hundreds, sometimes thousands of years. Many take several humans a week. Some think it's their _responsibility_ to do so, thinking that without a predator like us the humans would just overpopulate. Obviously this is not my viewpoint, though I've had troubles formulating a good counter argument. The point is, we live long, and like any creatures on this earth, we make mistakes, or at least do things we regret. And unlike humans, we remember perfectly, regret for an eternity. I'm sorry you will suffer that.

"But because of that, it's all the more important that we accept our mistakes and move on. I will help you get through whatever turmoil you are suffering, but what I really want to know — what I need to understand — is this: What do you want? How do you wish to live the _rest_ of your life? That is what I wish to help you with. I am here for you, Edward, but you must decide how."

His eyes delved into mine, and I could almost feel him searching my thoughts to determine the truth of my words. Finally, he swallowed and seemed to brace himself.

"I want to come home," he said quietly. "I've already begun living by your rules again. _My_ rules now. For the last six weeks, I've been living in the forest, proving to myself I could still do it — drink from only animals. I couldn't bear to come to you until my eyes had started to clear. I needed you to know I could do it, _want_ to do it. Whether you accept me again or not, I'll never drink from another human. It's just not worth everything I lost, and everything I might have caused."

Joy soared through my heart and mind, and I struggled to tamp it down before elation distracted me from the very real work ahead. We were not done.

"If you don't want me to come home," he said, mistaking my silence and dampened thoughts for rejection, "I'll go to the farmhouse in Chicago until I can sort out my next plan. If you're willing to, you can write me there—"

"Edward—"

"—and send me your new address so—"

"_Edward!"_

His mouth shut with a click.

I rubbed his hair out of his eyes again, still marveling that he was here and real and _wanting to return_. But I still had concerns.

"Edward," I started again, more softly. "Of _course_ I want you to come home. Want it so much I can _taste_ it. But I saw you playing on the stage at Grey Dawn. I saw how you interacted with the other musicians — your friends — how you were respected and valued and _happy_. You were happy on that stage, Edward. Don't try to deny it. And if you come back, well, none of the things that drove you away in the first place have really changed. _I've_ changed perhaps, but the need for secrecy, the need to protect our privacy... none of that has changed. You'd be miserable, and I couldn't bear it, Edward. I couldn't bear the idea of you being unhappy just to please me and Esme."

He closed his eyes, and I was afraid I'd convinced him to go.

"Carlisle, do you know what I missed when I was gone?"

I shook my head. He'd lived in Carnegie Hall, heard great music all the time. He'd been in an Edward-shaped heaven.

"I'd be reading in my attic room, sitting sideways on my one armchair." And that I could picture perfectly. "And I'd read something and comment on it out loud. But you wouldn't be there. I would come home from a concert and want to share some insight _you_ would understand, but I'd pushed you away.

"I missed the sound of your pacing when you think, and the smell of Esme's tea and turpentine, and the way your face used to light up when you got home to find me and Esme still in the house waiting for you, and the way you'd come home with sheet music just because you thought I'd like some. I missed talking to someone who knows my _name_. Who knows my likes and dislikes and irritating habits as well as you do. I missed _home_.

"Those other musicians valued me as a session player, but they weren't my friends, Carlisle. They certainly weren't my family. Music will always need to be a part of my life, but I don't need to perform to be happy. Even when given the chance, I didn't perform all the time. It got old, rote. And everything I was seeing and hearing felt less real because I couldn't share it with you and Esme. I couldn't share myself with anyone. It was like being a ghost in my own life. And I realized that's how you must have felt for the first few centuries of your life. All the connections to other people were temporary and fleeting. None of it had the substance of my relationship with you or Esme, but I just didn't value it back then. It was all I'd known. I had no idea how _alone_ we could feel. This last month, as my eyes and head have cleared, I've thought a lot about my life with you and Esme, and then my life alone. Performing with humans isn't worth what I gave up. Not even close, Carlisle."

And now my joy ran rampant and froze my brain and my tongue. I could only stare at him, brushing the hair out of his eyes and reminding myself that vampires do not dream, so this must be real.

"Please, Carlisle. Please let me come home."

Unable to stop myself, I kissed his forehead and drew his shoulders against me in an awkward hug. Edward didn't seem to mind.

_Yes. Come home._

He clung to me for several moments, and I felt the tension in his shoulders relax marginally. Then he pulled away.

"Carlisle, the last time I disappointed you, you let me do something to atone."

_The Chopin?_ I asked, still not trusting my voice.

He nodded. "This is so much larger a debt. I have no idea what could come close to right these wrongs, but if you can think of anything—"

"Edward, the Chopin was never really about the hunt in Canada. It was about getting you to face something you were hiding from. But this time, you've faced things all on your own. And I'm proud of you. This experience and what you had to do to come out of it — I think it has left you changed. More introspective. That is atonement enough for me."

He looked unconvinced but didn't argue, nodding once through his grave and intense gaze.

And it was done. The thing that had seemed impossible an hour ago was decided. Edward was coming home. Not coming... he _was_ home. Joy surged through my mind, and even Edward's serious expression was lightened by it. And then the logistics hit me. We needed to leave. We were already behind schedule, and I needed to call the realtor and specify new search parameters for the house. I'd specified the edge of town, but further out would be better if Edward were coming, and—

"Slow down, Carlisle."

I froze. He _was_ coming, wasn't he?

"Yes. I'm definitely coming. But we need to talk to Esme. And I need to bathe before I see any humans. I haven't had a bath for two weeks."

I leaned back to look at him. He was rather rough around the edges, but not rough enough to have been in the woods for six weeks.

He rolled his eyes. "I went back to get my things from the city and got a hotel for a night, so I could clean up. I wanted to go again before coming to you, but the trip to Rochester forced my hand."

"You know about Rochester?"

He pushed his hands into his pockets, looking toward the ground. Sheepish. "I've been monitoring you for a few weeks. Not consistently, but every few days, I'd approach from downwind and listen, trying to gauge if I'd be welcome when I showed up. I wanted to come home ages ago, but I couldn't face you until my eyes had clearly started changing. I just would have been too ashamed, and I wanted you to understand I was serious about stopping. I heard about this trip last week."

"Is Rochester all right?" I asked. I hadn't taken Edward's needs into consideration when I chose it. Was there even a music school there? I'd purposefully not looked into it.

"It will be fine, Carlisle."

I shook my head. "I've accepted the job, but I could tell them something's come up. We could head west—" And I really needed to fill Esme in. She was probably climbing the walls back at the house.

"It's fine, Carlisle. I don't care where we are as long as I've got some distance from the city," he said, rising to his feet and offering me a hand.

"But what will you do?" I asked as I took his hand and got up.

He shrugged, suddenly looking very young. Smirking, he said, "I could always go to high school."

I laughed, remembering how he'd told me he _never_ wanted to do that again.

As my humor faded, I was struck again by how surreal this all felt.

"You're really coming with us?" I asked, still somewhat dazed.

"I'm really coming. If I'm welcome."

"Let's go tell Esme," I said, and he'd already turned toward the house before I could finish the thought. We walked back together, and I felt... everything. It was familiar but new, reassuring but frighteningly tentative. He was home. I wondered how long it would take my old mind to get used to it and how long before the walls I'd built against the pain of his leaving would start to crumble like the fortresses in my old country.

Esme's suitcases were packed and on the porch when we cleared the trees, and she fidgeted next to them waiting for us to approach. Her face lit up when she saw we were smiling. Edward took the porch steps in a single leap, landing neatly in front of her. He was swallowed by her embrace.

"Don't _ever_ do that to me again," my wife scolded in hushed tones.

"Yes, Esme," he whispered, squeezing her more tightly. He pulled away from her slowly as I climbed the steps, and though she hesitated at first, she let him go. "Give me ten minutes to wash and change," he said, kissing her on the cheek. And then he climbed the stairs to his old room, leaving us alone on the porch.

Esme looked at me expectantly.

"He's coming home. He's coming with us."

She threw her arms around my neck and clung to me, wracked with dry, happy sobs. And I hushed her and stroked her hair, but I was the same inside. After such a long time spent waiting and suppressing any reactions to his absence, we couldn't help but react to his presence. There would be much to heal. Esme was still hurt that he never met with her all the times she'd looked for him, but I knew her heart and how it forgave. I knew they would be close again.

She finally pulled away, wiping her eyes with her sleeve as if tears might be there. There were noticeable splash noises still coming from the upstairs bath.

"I'm glad he didn't see that," Esme whispered.

I raised an eyebrow. How quickly she forgot.

"Well, of course, he _saw_ it, but I mean... Turn away," she ordered, realizing that Edward could see her face through my eyes if he chose to look. I laughed and turned as she continued straightening her hair and dabbing her face. There was no need; she looked lovely as ever and happier than I'd seen her in a long time.

"Esme, he's been living in the city for years. I'm sure he's learned to block the thoughts of others—"

A soft snort from upstairs interrupted that thought.

I changed tack. "You look lovely."

She stifled a laugh, and I turned back toward her to see her grinning at me. "And you're not very smooth at all, Carlisle Cullen," she answered, wrapping her arms around me.

"No," I said, pulling her close. "I never have been."

We held each other for a moment, and then she whispered, "I'm so happy."

"Me, too."

"I can't believe it," she said, her hands caressing my back as her face nuzzled against me.

"Me neither."

"Is it a dream?"

"Shall I pinch you?" I asked, shifting my hands lower.

She swatted my chest, and laughter bubbled up from both of us.

"Tell me everything," she whispered, turning her face up to mine.

I kissed her. Not a kiss of solace, like the ones we'd shared many times over the last few years, but a kiss suffused with joy. And humor, as she smiled and retreated an inch.

"Was that your answer?" she asked, her dimple showing as she smiled.

I huffed a laugh and moved a stray hair from her brow. "I'll let him share the details, but the salient point is he decided the life he led in the city no longer suits him. He's been drinking from animals the last six weeks and wants to come home. He wants to go with us to Rochester."

And again the parable of the prodigal son entered my mind — though I knew the comparison would likely make Edward angry, or at least exasperated. But it wouldn't leave my mind. Because I _did_ want to celebrate his return, and perhaps it was perverse, but I felt I appreciated him more now than I had when he'd been faithfully by my side. That lack of appreciation had been a mistake I would not repeat. I swore from now on I would not take him for granted, and I would do my best to balance his needs with mine and Esme's. And I could only hope that it would be enough.

Edward came down the stairs carrying a packed case and wearing a familiar suit, sleeves rolled up and jacket off for the long ride. He hadn't even buttoned his vest all the way.

"We're going to be in the car for hours, aren't we?" he asked, frowning and looking down at his clothes.

"Yes," I reassured. "No need to be formal yet."

And as he reached the bottom step, Esme wrapped her arms around his neck again, pulling him into another tight hug. And Edward allowed it, sinking into her embrace and resting his chin on her shoulder as he closed his eyes. He seemed to understand that Esme and I both needed the tactile proof of his presence and his affection.

His eyes opened, and he looked at me, still deep in Esme's grip.

"I don't mind," he said softly.

_About the hug?_

He shook his head. "Earlier."

I wasn't sure what he meant, but Esme pulled back before I could ask.

"We should get going," she said. "We have a long drive ahead of us, and we can catch up in the car."

Edward reached down for his case, smiling.

"Oh! I should call the realtor. Give him some new ideas to guide his search."

"We'll load the car," Edward said, taking Esme's bags as well as his own.

Ten minutes later we were in the car driving northeast.

"How long will it take?" he asked.

"If we can maintain a speed of thirty-five miles per hour, it should take just over twelve hours. We can get a good chunk of that done tonight," I said, looking up at the crimson and orange clouds. The sun was setting, and we had a good eight hours of darkened safety. "I'm hoping we can make it through Syracuse before dawn, and then we can turn south and spend the day around Skaneateles Lake where it's not nearly so populated. We can hunt there, too, before going on to Rochester."

"Are we meeting anyone tomorrow night?"

"No, not until the following morning. But the realtor had said he'd drop some new home descriptions by our hotel so we could look at them and prioritize. Then we'll be out looking at houses the next two days. Esme also has an appointment at a local museum. You and I could explore the town. Oh, and I asked the realtor, and he said that the Eastman School of Music accepts eighteen-year-olds and is being run right now by an American composer named Howard Hanson. Have you heard of him?"

Edward nodded. "He's a modern symphonic composer. I've heard his second symphony."

"Is it good?"

Edward shrugged. "The second movement is... evocative. It's not really my taste, but there are many who like it. I think he's got some interest in opera, as well. But he's really an evangelist for American music. He wants to elevate American composition to its own art, on equal footing with the Europeans. But it doesn't matter. I don't need a music school, Carlisle."

He seemed almost guilty. As if considerations of his needs weren't important as we moved forward. Just as I'd vowed to take better consideration of his needs, he'd decided to forsake them.

"I'm not," Edward answered softly. "That's just not one of them."

Esme looked back and forth between us, knowing she was missing something, but let it be. She tried again, drawing Edward into conversation, and eventually it worked. She asked about the music he'd seen, and slowly he started answering her, growing more and more animated. It seemed almost cathartic for Edward. He'd listened to so much fine music the first few years he was gone, and had apparently not been able to express his views with anyone. And it all poured forth now. Esme asked questions about what composers he'd seen — both jazz and classical — and Edward answered for hours. He spoke haltingly at times, as I'm sure the memories of music were intertwined with darker memories. But he talked and seemed better for it. We were all careful to avoid the topic of his hunting, or even the hard times people had been suffering in the city. Esme didn't want to hear those details, and Edward didn't want to speak of them —though I made it clear in my thoughts that if he ever _did_ want to discuss any of those dark moments, I was willing to hear them and try to help him process his thoughts. He met my eyes in the rear-view mirror and nodded as he continued to regale Esme with the differences between New York jazz and the music of New Orleans and Chicago.

We reached the small town of Skaneateles at the lake's northern tip just as dawn was breaking pink and violet over the rippling water. We turned south and traveled a road that skirted the eastern edge of the lake about ten miles. I'd forgotten how handy it was to have a mind-reader with me. Edward knew when we'd moved south of the settlements and into unpopulated areas. He easily directed us to a deserted dirt lane off the main road. We parked the car in the forest near an isolated stretch of beach and got out to explore.

We'd have to stay here until cloud cover grew thick, or the sun set. But meanwhile, my family sparkled like the clear, deep water before us — both literally and figuratively. I hadn't seen Esme so carefree for years. I hadn't felt this light myself since... well, I wasn't sure. Certainly not since before Edward left, but I was sure some time before that, as well. The last several years before Edward left had been tense. It was part of what had driven him away. But now an uncertain contentment seeped into my skin. It would take a while for this to feel natural again, but I felt confident it would.

We hunted in the forest and then returned to walk the beach. By early afternoon, the wind had picked up, though it was still bright and clear. Edward ran a bit ahead of Esme and me, skipping stones on the water and sending flocks of ducks and geese into the air.

Esme laughed, chastising him gently. The wind whipped her skirt around her legs as she balanced on an unsteady stone. Edward turned just in time to see a gust grab her cloche and carry it in his direction. He caught it neatly as I helped Esme gain better footing. As he approached and handed it to her, I noticed his brow was furrowed.

_Edward?_

He shook his head absently, obviously deep in thought.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," he said, looking out over the lake. "I think I just had a _deja vu_. Or... I think I used to walk on a lake shore with my family. Before."

My eyes widened. I'd wondered how many of his human memories he'd retained, but we hadn't discussed it much since the year Esme joined us. "Lake Michigan?"

He shrugged. "It must have been."

The mood after that was a bit more subdued. Content still, as we walked in the sunshine. Edward still had some of the exuberance of youth I'd always associated with him, but it was tempered now with his experiences. The consequences of his decisions and actions.

He was a man now. And like all men — certainly like me — he bore the weight of his choices. The good and the bad that come from just living in the world and making decisions, some of which are utterly life-altering. Regret and joy. And as I watched him, I knew, as always, that any pain he bore was ultimately my responsibility. I had snatched him from his natural death, and I had made his burdens immortal.

And I couldn't regret it for a moment. I could regret the pain he felt, the lives he'd taken, but never him. Never my choice to save him. How hollow my life would be if I'd chosen differently.

He looked up at me, a small smile on his face. Then he nodded to the west.

"It looks like the clouds are finally blowing in. It will probably be safe to leave soon."

I agreed, and we turned back toward the car.

The rest of the drive was quieter as we took in the environment around our new home and considered the game that were likely present. There were many farms in the area, but I knew just over the Canadian border were extensive forests. It was one of the advantages of being so far north.

We pulled into Rochester around four-thirty in the afternoon, much earlier than I'd anticipated. The rain was still light, but growing harder. I could only hope that it wouldn't rain itself out overnight.

We drove around town admiring the fine homes along East Avenue and the many city parks along the Genesee River. We wouldn't live here, but the grand houses were still lovely and reflected what I knew of the community: they wished to become a destination city, showing their wealth through fine living and patronage of the arts. I hoped, with some subtle help from Esme, their museum would finally get off the ground.

We eventually found the hotel and donned gloves and hats. I held the umbrella for Esme as she exited the car and rushed —at human speeds — to the door. We entered a modest but well-appointed lobby where a gentleman holding a stack of papers talked anxiously with the man behind the reception desk. As we waited, Edward tried to get my attention just as I heard my name.

"I'm Doctor Cullen," I offered, interrupting the gentlemen. And as I felt myself flanked by Esme and Edward, I was struck by a sense of belonging. So much of my life I'd looked for new homes alone. Even when we moved to Connecticut to live as a family, I'd shopped for the home alone. To think that we'd be deciding together was somehow heartening. I was still in mild disbelief that Edward was here and staying, but if he were selecting a home with us, surely it was true.

The man with the papers turned, and the irritation on his face gave way to relief. "Doctor Cullen! I'm Robert Jensen," he said, offering his hand for me to shake. "We spoke on the phone yesterday. I'm so glad you made it into town before the rain got too heavy. The roads, I fear, are going to be bad for our search tomorrow."

"That's fine," I said, shaking his hand. "We actually prefer a bit of rain over the heat we've had the last week."

He smiled. "Well, I'm glad you won't find it too troublesome. I have some new homes for you to look at," he said, handing me the sheets of paper. Each had a photograph clipped to it. "These are further out of town, as you requested. There are also some listings in the outlying villages and a few near the south end of Irondequoit Bay. You said you like hunting and fishing, and there is a lot of wildlife out there."

"That sounds promising. I'll go over these with my family tonight, so we can start in the morning with the best looking options."

"Excellent," Mr. Jensen said, looking at me expectantly. I realized I was being rude, just as a panic hit me. Because with all the time we had driving out, we had never discussed _this_. And it seemed an idiotic oversight on my part. We'd spent so much time just getting caught up and just getting used to being in each other's presence again, we hadn't spent much time thinking about the future.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Jensen," I said, stalling for time and starting with the easy introduction. "This is my wife, Esme."

He took her hand in greeting as I turned toward Edward. When we'd moved to Connecticut, he'd posed as Esme's younger brother, orphaned in his early teens by the Spanish Influenza. But Edward was still seventeen. So now we'd have to claim that his parents had died of the flu when he was four — which was possible but wouldn't be as clean as our old story. There would be foster parents or an orphanage if Esme were thirteen when orphaned. Or we could keep to our previous story, their deaths happening when Esme was an adult and Edward a teen, but make their parents die in an accident more recently—"

"And I'm Edward," he said, unable to keep a smirk from settling on his face as he glanced at me sideways. He was resisting the urge to roll his eyes, but in their gleam I could almost hear the exasperated complaint, 'paralysis by analysis.' He began to extend his hand toward Mr. Jensen, and in that fraction of a second I wondered what story he would invent — what role in his life I would take for the next decade as we made Rochester our home? It was a strange moment of suspense, and I almost reveled in my lack of control. Edward would decide, and I'd be happy with the role he offered. Nervousness flashed in his eyes, but I nodded reassuringly.

His eyes left mine as he turned his attention back to Mr. Jensen. He grasped the realtor's hand in a firm shake, and said in a steady voice —

"I'm their son."

* * *

_AN: That was the last line as I conceived the story three years ago. It is, admittedly, not quite canon. According to the Illustrated Guide, Edward still posed as Esme's brother while they lived in Rochester. However, I needed this to finish Prelude's arc, and so I ask your forgiveness for the minor change in timing of the sentiment._

_I have so many people I should thank for helping me, I am sure to leave someone out. Again, I ask your forgiveness. But I think it very likely I would not have been able to keep writing without the support, inspiration, write chats, and friendship I receive from my fellow fanfic authors and readers: StormDragonfly, Malianani, Eeyorefan12, WoodLily, BookwormBaby2580, NixHaw (playlist goddess), Juje aka Skylark, and HeartofDarkess. I will probably update this AN several times as I remember additional names._

_Special thanks to the people who have betaed or preread Prelude chapters for me over the years: Coleen561, Juje/Skylark, and Eeyorefan12._

_Prelude is officially finished, but I can't mark it as complete, yet. I've written a short epilogue that I'll post soon._

_Thank you all for reading and sharing your thoughts. It's been a fun ride for me, and I hope you've enjoyed it, too._


	37. Epilogue

Epilogue

May 2007

CPOV

A rush of wind sent the alder leaves quaking, catching the light in shades of chartreuse, gold, and white. Beyond were shadows of deep greens and blues cast by towering Sitka Spruce and Western Hemlock. The trees here were old; some individuals were even older than _me_. High in the branches were curtains of mosses — more than a hundred species — dripping over branches and feeding on the very air. They, too, were ancient, as were the ferns and horsetails growing on the forest floor. Dinosaur food. Light streamed through the small breaks in the canopy to form diagonal beams, visible as the insects, dust, and pollen moved through them. The beams brightened, illuminating the forest floor, and then faded as a cloud once again moved across the sun. The sword ferns grew in dense thickets, filling the spaces between massive trunks. They seemed short compared to the enormous trees around them, but even they could be up to four feet tall.

Easily tall enough to hide a young half-vampire wishing to evade her aunts and uncles in a game I'd already bowed out of.

"Don't tell, Grandpa," she whispered as I walked past, smiling in her direction.

"Your secret's safe with me, sweetheart," I muttered back, moving my lips hardly at all in case the others were watching from a distance. I winked in her general direction, and her barely-there giggle chased me from her glade.

I climbed to a higher terrace where a recent tree-fall had left an unobstructed view of the river and part of the adjacent forest. From here, I could catch glimpses of almost all my family as the game played out.

Esme was stalking Emmett, who was too busy tracking Jasper to notice. Alice was hiding high up in the canopy, easy enough to spot from my vantage point, but nearly impossible from the forest floor. Especially, as Edward liked to point out, if one still stubbornly forgot to look up. Rose was getting dangerously close to Renesmee's hiding place, but a yelp from the alder trees distracted her. Edward had caught Bella and had already taken his prize in the form of a kiss. They were standing at the edge of the river in each other's arms when the sun broke through the clouds again, casting sparkling reflections across both the water and their skin.

They were so happy. _He_ was so happy — happier than I'd ever seen him in our long life together. Spring had come and melted the snow that had brought the Volturi with it. And now, even memories of those dark days when we thought we might not see _any more_ springs were seeping into the soil and washing away. We all felt light and relieved and blessed, and none so much as me.

My family. One who called me husband, six who called me father, and now one who called me grandpa.

I could still vividly remember a time when my only purpose was medicine, and my best company was a Victrola gramophone and Solitude — the personification of all my deepest insecurities. How far I'd come.

Memories of our years together filtered through my mind as I watched the game. We had not always been this carefree. There had been trials and struggles, just as there were in any family. But we grew, and happiness came. Even, in the end, for Edward. And since he had waited the longest while surrounded by the happiness of others, his now burned the brightest.

I sat on a stump and watched them all, my attention finally resting on Edward, who was eyeing the ferny thicket where Renesmee hid.

_If you find her in there, it's not because of anything _I_ told you,_ I warned.

He grinned up at me, raising his hands in supplication and then smiling indulgently at the fern grotto as he began stalking again.

It struck me that though he called me father, he was also one himself. The only other man in our clan who understood what it meant, what I would do to protect those I loved. Yes, all our family and friends had come to Renesmee's rescue, but I was fairly certain Edward, Bella, Esme, and I had been the most viscerally affected. We were the parents in the group. It was one more thing — perhaps the most profound thing — that Edward and I shared. And over the years we had shared a lot.

There was a squeal from the ferns, and I laughed as Edward caught Nessie and then spun her around in his arms. Her delight was clear and infectious. Edward was beaming.

He was _so good_ with her. He had grown up so much since we'd first been together, these last few years especially. But even having seen the entire progression — even knowing how much his sense of himself had changed as he took on the roles of son, brother, and husband — seeing him in the role of a father was truly amazing. He was a natural. And, technically, he had a better claim to the title than I did. Renesmee was, after all, his biological child — a fact that still astounded my medical mind. I gained my title mostly through the charade we had to play for the humans, and the fact that I had turned so many of them. It was my venom flowing through their veins perhaps, but that was still hardly the same.

He whispered something in Renesmee's ear and handed her to Bella, who nodded as he pulled away. He climbed the hill of the terrace and soon was sitting beside me on one of the large nurse logs.

"Waxing philosophical, old man?"

I snorted. "Sentimentality more than philosophy, I'm afraid. You know how I get."

"That I do," he chuckled, leaning back on his hands and looking out on the river terrace.

We sat together for several moments, watching the others as the game unfolded, each seemingly lost in our own reveries. But Edward was actually still lost in mine.

"You don't really believe it, do you? That you are only a father because of the charade? Certainly, you're not a father because you've _turned_ us. I seem to remember having long conversations with you about that around the time Esme joined us." He looked at me meaningfully. "Otherwise, your marriage could have proven rather awkward."

I couldn't help my lips quirking as I shrugged. He was right, of course, but that just made the title more tenuous.

"Carlisle," he said, turning to look me in the eye, "you are our father because you're the glue that holds us together. The wisest of us. The one we turn to for advice. The one who makes all this, all of _us_," he waved his hand to include the entire family, "make sense. I _hope_ I can be half the father you've been. I _pray_ that I can give Renesmee a life as extraordinary as the one you've given me. Because it has been. Truly extraordinary."

I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat, nodding because I didn't trust my voice.

"If you're in any doubt of that," he added, "then I probably don't thank you enough. I wouldn't have any idea how to be a father without your teaching me by example. I'm so grateful to you... for everything, but especially for that. I never thought I could have so much."

I couldn't speak for several minutes. Edward and I had talked seriously like this hundreds of times, but somehow, this still felt different. Memories of our decades together filtered though my mind, almost randomly. I knew he saw me as a father, and, while I saw him as my son, he was so much more. He had been my first — my giant, conscious step away from a solitary life. My leap of faith. Edward had given my life color and vibrancy, and because of him, I'd been brave enough to do it again and again. And now look at us.

"I despaired of ever seeing you so happy," I finally answered. "You can't imagine how good it makes me feel. Well, maybe you can," I added, nodding toward Nessie, who was being tickled by her aunt.

"Yeah," Edward said softly, smiling down at his daughter. "I certainly couldn't have imagined this when I was skulking around the forests of Connecticut waiting for my eyes to clear, so I could come home. I'd been so sure I'd blown it and would be alone forever."

I wrapped my arm around his shoulder and drew him into my side. It still felt right, and that was somehow surprising.

_I know that feeling, _I thought, remembering when I, too, could only imagine an eternity alone.

I released my hold, and he shifted so he was balanced on the log, feet up and knees captured in the crooks of his elbows. Separate, but still close enough to touch. How we always were, it seemed.

It was hard to imagine being alone now. We'd had each other for ages, but now we had so much more. And with Bella and Renesmee added to the family, and very likely the wolves in some capacity, it seemed the future would take decades to grow monotonous again.

Edward snorted. "It really has been an eventful few years, hasn't it? Decades of nothing exciting happening, and then I fall in love with a human and _wham_! We think we're dead half a dozen times, and then, this." He waved his hand again, encompassing the entire river valley and the entire family.

"Yes. _This_," I said in a soft voice, watching my family relish a peace and joy they'd never really enjoyed before. "_This_ will do nicely."

We both watched on in comfortable silence, and I memorized the scene and the feeling of having Edward beside me — _still — _despite all the times I'd thought I'd lost him. I leaned my shoulder into his, and he grinned.

The sun began to drop behind one of the mountains, casting the Hoh valley into false twilight. The game had ended with the customary debates over who had won and which stratagems were allowable. Jasper and Emmett were discussing the finer points of "Backsies," the girls looking on in exasperated fondness.

Renesmee stifled a yawn.

Edward snorted a laugh, and I didn't try to hide my own laughter as both boys looked at her, chagrinned.

_She puts them in their place so quietly._

"And effectively," Edward agreed. "Emmett never backs down so quickly for anyone else."

"Well, that won't last long. As soon as she seems less fragile he'll be tossing her around like a plaything."

"Which she'll love. And I'm sure it will only give Bella _mild_ anxiety."

"Bella?" I asked incredulously. "Son, of the two of you, _Bella_ has never been the anxious one."

He huffed a small laugh and rolled his eyes. He knew it was true, even if he wouldn't say so out loud.

He didn't look anxious now, though. He looked as content as I felt.

And then I remembered a moment nearly forty years ago. We were watching the Tonight Show, and Louis Armstrong played what would end up being the last big hit of his illustrious career. And Edward had _hated_ it, saying Louie had gone soft and ruined his legacy. But I'd found the song hopeful in an idealized way. Not until now did I truly appreciate the lyrics in a visceral way. It seemed to fit the day.

I glanced over at Edward, who was fighting a smirk.

"You're going to tease me for being sentimental, aren't you?" I asked.

"Me? No," he said softly, a warmth in his voice I was still getting used to. "I think you were right about that song. It's grown on me."

I raised my eyebrows and resisted teasing him about his own sentimentality.

He chuckled and stood, reaching his hand down to help me up.

"Come on, Carlisle," he said with a familiar smile. "Let's go home."

-Fin-

* * *

_AN: Cue "What a Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong. Nixhaw has added it to finish off the Prelude Playlist. And yes, I've managed to avoid schmaltz in the music the entire story, but wanted to end things with some fluff, and that had to be reflected in the music. I find the song just sincere enough to not be sickly sweet, though others might disagree. Anyway, it was this or 'We are Family' by Sister Sledge, and I don't think anyone wanted to see that._

_I'm marking 'Prelude in C' as complete._

_Thanks to all of you who came along with me on this journey, shared your thoughts and offered your support._

_I'm marking Prelude as complete._


End file.
